


Spoil of War

by Failed_to_Deanon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Everyone Needs A Hug, Everything Hurts, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infanticide, Murder, Politics, Poor Life Choices, Rape Aftermath, Sibling Incest, Soul-Crushing, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3195494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Failed_to_Deanon/pseuds/Failed_to_Deanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: One member of the former Royal Family survives the Sack of King's Landing; one who will aid in the rebuilding of the war-torn kingdom. But, as they say, nothing in life is free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jaime, 283 AC

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All things recognizable are property of G.R.R. Martin, David Benioff, D.B. Weiss, & company, & the asoiaf wiki.
> 
> I hope readers enjoy this newest AU. Please let me know what you think.

“I will speak for him!”

“Damn her”, Jaime thinks as he barely stops himself from flinching. They all had come to see him at his “trial”. Now, the crowd began whispering none too softly about _her_ , no longer staring at him with judging, hateful eyes. 

He would have preferred it. Sneering back at the ignorant crowd he could and would do gladly. It was different with her.

He does not need for anyone to speak for him. But, it was more than that: if anyone wants to waste their breaths for an exercise in futility, he’d rather it not be her. 

Elia Martell was not even supposed to be here. He grimaces again. Martell. Martell, not Targaryen. Not now, not never again with her husband dead for weeks and her Targaryen children now, too. 

Still, her name is not why he grimaces. She had not ventured from rooms they stuck her in since that night and today she does it looking like an emissary of the Stranger. Her face, once pleasant, was not smiling. Her dark eyes, no longer red-rimmed, were sunken in dark circles. Her dark hair was neatly dull and very lifeless. The bruises still on her face and arms stood out in stark contrast to her tan skin and her vibrant, if modest, orange gown.

She should not be here, bone thin and as pale as death, staring at Baratheon who had been slouching on the thrice damned Iron Throne not a moment ago to “speak for him”. The new king, now sitting upright and stiff, seems to want to turn her away; to do just about anything not to look at her. 

It was the only thing Jaime thought they had in common. 

“I will speak for him!” In between the puzzled and pitying looks directed towards her, along with the intensity of their whispers, an air of eager anticipation amongst the crowd grows.

He glances at his father. The great Tywin Lannister was trying not to frown. Few cry because Aerys was gone, but, seeing her now was all too much a reminder of how she suffered. Yet, she was not the only one to do so because Pycelle convinced Aerys to open the gates to Lannister men. His father dislikes the reminder most of all. Still, Elia Martell and what she represents will not disappear if they turn her away right now.

She would still be in the Red Keep. 

Even in the damp Black Cell they thrust him in, he heard of how those in the new regime tried to think of where to put her. There was no where she could have gone without tongues wagging. 

After seeing and hearing of how she had been ravaged by the Gregor Glegane and how the story flew, there would be no wedding her to someone. Even now she stood outside of arms reach of others. No, she would likely not welcome the touch of another man again, even if someone would desire her an understandably reluctant wife.

Ser Barristan, he heard, refused outright when sending to the Silent Sisters was brought forth as an option. Baratheon, who sneered at her children that night and looks disgusted now, it seemed, had the grace not to argue. Jaime knew why Barristan objected; no one wanted to be responsible for forcing her to see more dead children. Talk of putting her in a Sept was similarly dismissed. What good was a woman as a Septa if she laughed at hearing the word “Gods”?

Even if it would have been kinder, both for her and themselves, there would be no allowing her to go to Sunspear. Rumors about Prince Oberyn’s anger aside, Prince Doran _had_ accepted Lord Arryn’s swift sending along of Prince Lewyn’s bones and those of the two Targaryen children. It would not surprise him if a gentle reminder of their sister’s presence in King’s Landing had gone along with the bones.

Before this, his father, when he had deigned to come down to see him, explained she was to be a guest for the foreseeable future, or so he heard from Lord Arryn. At the time, he almost laughed in his father’s face.

He, the new “King”, and his father seem to be the few who do not wish to see her.

Her being was a “guest” who made her presence known meant there was going to be no shunting her off to her rooms discretely. Seeing half the crowd present lean forward in blatant interest tells him it was likely why she chanced it. 

“I will speak for Jaime Lannister.”

Those words again. Damn her!

The rest of them hate him for breaking his vows towards Aerys. The vows he made to her husband and broke were the ones they should hate him for. 

For now, Baratheon remains stunned silent, but, Arryn, with hesitant curiosity in his voice, questions, “Why speak for a Kingslayer?” Were he in the right state, he would ask why she would speak at all. 

Only, he was not in the right state to ask anything. Kingslayer. This was not the first time he heard that word directed towards him. How she does not flinch at the word either is no comfort.

With artful carelessness, she shrugs. “Aerys was a monster. It is the duty of a knight to rid the world of monsters, especially ones who were going to burn the city down.”

His eyes close briefly as confused and alarmed gasps ring out from all corners. How long had she known? How did she even come to? Why does she reveal this now?

With this, Baratheon finally stands up, furious. “You are mad, woman!”

Rather undisturbed she nods agreeably. “Perhaps so, Your Grace”. Judging by the alarmed whispers growing louder behind him, the audience does not know what to do at this sweet-voiced woman’s lack of disgust or fear. 

Then, she smirks, making the scars on her face stand out more. “But, there is still wildfire hidden all across the city.” 

He could see Baratheon’s anger and Barristan’s horror growing along with the timbre of furious whispering. He barely hears the Hand’s next question. “How do you mean, Princess?”

She laughs; a mockery of delight spreads across her dark features. “Aerys Targaryen’s cruelty went beyond the smallest level of propriety long ago. I would know, I was forced to live with him at his worst like Ser Jaime was. Ser Jaime snuffed out the man who would give the order to ignite the wildfire just waiting for someone to set it alight. Lord Arryn, it is no easy thing for a knight of the Kingsguard to have to kill his king. Such things are not done on a whim, only necessity. There was one.”

Oh, he wanted to sneer in Ned Stark’s horrified face, but, right now he did not have the strength. He could read in most of the faces the whys had not mattered when there had been no reason, but, now there was. A reprieve, coming from this quarter and in this way…

He did not want her help. He wants no absolution from her.

The red-faced, new king interrupted again, accusing, “You are lying.” 

Once more she laughs. How she could, he did not know and does not have the time to think of the question because she starts speaking again. “I have no reason to lie. I have less to protect Aerys or this Lannister.” She shrugs again and adds, “Or any, truly.” 

Though he hears appalled gasps and murmurs of assent ring out in equal measure, at her unconcerned tone, he does not dare to look at his father now.

Instead, he watches as she sneers at Baratheon, though Jaime was unsure if the expression was directed at the memory of the last king or at the one before her. “There is no other use for pyromancers as Hand of the King. Fire had been Aerys’ chosen champion against lords he convinced himself to be traitors often enough long before war was lost.” 

She shrugs again and straightens. “I no longer have a husband or sweet children to protect. Who amongst you has nothing to lose? Listen or do not, but, I, Elia Nymeros Martell, with whatever little honor which was not stripped from me, swear what I have said is the truth: Aerys meant to kill us all with wildfire.” 

As horrified whispering grows louder, unsmiling as she was, for a moment, she looked like the Princess Elia of old. He takes no joy in seeing it. Her eyes fall upon him and he fights the urge not to avert his eyes as Barristan, Arryn, and Stark had done when he saw her gaze at them. 

His first thought was of how her face looks serene. The next thought was of how it should not be, only she turns back to Baratheon, drawling out, “Killing Aerys, Ser Jaime did right, what a knight ought.”

The din grows deafening when on the heels of her pronouncement, she collapses in the middle of the Throne Room.

* * *

He looks up at the shuffling of feet and the clanging and creaking of the barred door opening. While he was sitting in one of the nicer of the Black Cells he was glad they are getting on with it at last.

“What can I do for you Lord Commander?”

Ser Barristan’s pallor was ashen and his expression spoke of a mind deeply troubled. “It is true.”

Not quite getting along with things, then. He sighs. “You found wildfire.”

“Too much.” He does not doubt it. He had known, but, for Barristan, despite Princess Elia’s warnings, it must have been quite the thing to see.

He says none of this. “I see. So, what is to be done about me now? Am I going to be killed?”

A horrified shake of the head is the answer.

“Sent to the Wall?” Another shake.

“Exiled?” Nothing. 

“Sent back to Casterly Rock?” Hope begins to form at the possibility at being sent back to Cersei.

Barristan finally bites out, “No!”

He frowned, hope dashed and frustration sets in. “Then, what? I am going to be stripped of my cloak.” Can they just get on with it? 

Again, “No.”

More confused, he growls out, “Then, what?”

“Nothing.” 

Perplexed, he repeats, “Nothing?”

He looks away from Ser Barristan. “Princess Elia’s testimony.” 

It would have to be her testimony. Unbidden the thought of Cersei and Elia Martell could not be more different except for one commonality comes: that they desire his being near and the knowledge that in order to do manage it he needs to be Kingsguard. Well, two commonalities: knowing there is no choice except for his deferring. 

He laughs. 

Clearly disapproving, Barristan frowns. “You should have said something.”

There is no room for ‘should haves’. “Who would have believed me?” Ever since that night he had been called that: Kingslayer. Who would want to believe him? And the only ones who would…

Barristan seems disappointed in him. “I would have, if only you told me.” Disappointed and hurt. 

He grimaces. There was nothing to be done about Barristan’s sentimentalities now. There is not much which can be done about anything now. Then Barristan sighs, “I suppose it does not matter. Everyone knows or will. There is that.” 

Barristan thinks it should comfort him. It does not.

Most stories and songs are about knights rescuing princesses from presumably ugly fates. This was quite the other way around or so it would seem. King’s Landing being the sewer of gossips is meant the story of her testimony must be spreading. He does not smile at the thought. He cannot.

“How is she?” He owes her enough to ask.

“She is resting.” He nearly laughs at the reply. _Resting_. There would be no rest for her any more than there would be for him. She was likely sleeping the sleep of those who had maesters in their proximity.

It earns him another disapproving look, but, he is far too tired to care. “Jaime.”

“Yes, Lord Commander?”

Uncharacteristically, Barristan hesitates. Thankfully, or not, the Lord Commander comes to himself soon enough. “What did she mean when she said you acted like a knight should?”

He closed his eyes and leaned back to brace his head on the wall behind him, trying to fight another sigh. Those were not quite her words, but, men like Barristan, proper knights, will not and cannot understand. A small part of him hopes they never do. “The vows I took when I was knighted.” 

“Your vows?” It is not often one sees Barristan the Bold obviously confused. He would laugh, except there was nothing comical about that Dornishwoman’s thoughts. 

"Yes, my vows.” He takes a breath and recites, “’In the name of the Father I charge you to be just.’”

He waits for Barristan’s dubious and weary before continuing, “When Ser Arthur knighted me I swore to be just. No matter how good the reasons, I am a kingslayer, but, to her, I killed a killer. She does not hold it against me. This is what she meant."

Barristan looks unsure. Perhaps it was reluctance borne from having to discuss Princess Elia, given his new allegiances. Still, the Lord Commander takes pity on him. “That was kind of her.”

He opened his mouth only to shut it not half a breath later. He nods, now more than anything wishing the other man would leave. 

Barristan looks as though he wanted to say that Jaime should be grateful. Thankfully, he is spared the need to speak much when Barristan turns and begins escorting him out of the Black Cells. It is difficult enough with the way people gawk at him the whole way back to the White Tower. 

And still, there is no relief, when, after Barristan murmurs a few words about his being allowed to return to his duties the week following, the older man finally leaves him alone.

Sitting down on his sleeping pallet, he groans heavily. Looking around the small room, he thinks he’d rather be back in the Black Cells. 

_“Ser Jaime did right, what a knight ought.”_

She had not lied about not holding his killing Aerys against him, yet, she, who was in part responsible for becoming a knight, albeit reluctantly and unwittingly, knew he has not acted like a proper one for some time. 

He lays back on his sleeping pallet, remembering when Ser Arthur Dayne set Dawn atop his shoulder saying those blessed words. The Sword of the Morning, wherever he was, if he heard what Jaime had done he probably regrets knighting him now. He knows he regrets having it done.

Like he told Barristan, he broke no vows to the Father, but, he had not reminded the other man of how those were not the only ones he took. 

‘In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave.’ There is nothing brave about killing a man who trusted him not to; a man who he swore to protect. Before that, knowing how wrong it was, he stood by and watched as Aerys ravaged his wife, sneer at his son’s children, imprison his good-daughter, and kill countless men.

‘In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent.’ He saw the small, blood-stained bodies; the smashed in face of the babe and the young girl’s tear-marred face twisted in terror. One died after being dragged from under her dead father’s bed and the other was ripped from his mother’s breast because he left them alone. 

"’In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women.’ They threw out the torn and tattered gown ripped from her body and the broken jewelry, but, he remembers finding her too well. He can still see the blood, some her own, some her son’s, on her thighs. He knows each bruise, each scratch. Some will never fade from her body or his mind. The sound of her shrieks pleas in his mind will certainly not go away; neither with the sight of Elia Martell’s blood stained fists failing to try to fight off his father’s armored soldier.

_“He did right.”_

He swore to protect her and her children. He hadn’t. He didn’t try.

Now, her words saved him from being punished for the one thing that matters least.

His father had said he had not been thinking of her when he unleashed his men on the city. Now, his father would be beholden to her for ensuring that his legacy is not completely soiled by the actions of his son and the men under his command. His father must hate that. 

Once he would have never imagined such a thing prove appealing to the woman. Again, he suppresses the urge to laugh. If he does manage the sound, he knows it is going to be a broken thing just like she seemed to become.

_“I will speak for him.”_

To all the world it looked like Elia Martell spoke in his defense, one good thing to come from this mess.

Barristan would have him feel gratitude to Elia Martell for being spared exile or worse. He doubts she wants it. The look in her eyes said as much.

Even if she had meant to give him kindness and forgiveness there was none in what she did. Those things broke when her body was ravaged and died alongside her children. 

With one more glance around the room he thinks once again he had not been lying when he said he had not wanted to see her. 

With her testimony, she made certain he was going to have to. 

After all, Kingsguard serve for life and here he was, still that.


	2. Jon Arryn, 283 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n 1: Syrax was Rhaenyra’s Targaryen’s dragon. 
> 
> A/n 2: “The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms” was written by Grand Maester Malleon.
> 
> Warning: There will be multiple references to war, murder (including infanticide), and rape in this chapter.

Jon is unsure of how to begin the conversation he needs to have. He does not want to be here, in Elia Martell’s chambers. Seeing the dark circles surrounding dark eyes on that too pale face he recognizes he has to be. “My Princess, I hear you do not take the draughts the Grand Maester makes.”

As if justifying his point, she winces and lets out a sharp gasp in her effort to sit up straighter. And yet, “You heard correctly, my lord.” 

Not understanding, he probes, “Why do you refuse?”

Her face twists and her voice being barely above a whisper forces him to lean forward. “I can take no potions from that man’s hand.”

He nearly sighs at the answer which gives him nothing. He tries again. “You are not well.”

This time he gets a raised eyebrow. “Perhaps my lord is unaware how it has been often said that I have been ‘not well’.”

It is only by virtue of age, he does not react. ‘Sickly’. ‘Frail’. ‘Weak’. He had been aware of things said of her long before she collapsed in front of the audience at the Kingslayer’s trial. This, however, cannot continue when much scrutiny is upon them because of how she is in their midst. 

Before he can respond, she adds, “I would thank you for your concern; however, my lord you, no doubt, have greater concerns than my health.”

Her effort to speak louder is no gift. The rough quality of her voice makes her sound as though she had been crying. He detests this reminder. He does need one. What he despairs at is the truth behind the accusation. Dorne may or may not have the numbers, but, the men who fought under his banner, Ned’s, and Robert’s are tired. For her to be irreparably ill in his care will cause complications none of them can afford. 

He breathes deeply. “Princess, it would trouble my mind to no end to see you become more unwell.”

“And it would trouble my mind to take anything that man gives me.”

Still confused at her vehemence, his brows knit together. “Why?”

Again with that brittle tone, she starts, “It was at his foul council those monsters were able to- ” 

She stops abruptly. He flinches at her choked sob. Damn it all!

When he can look at her once more, wetness has gathered in her eyes. And still, when she speaks again there was fire amidst the tears. “If you want me to take anything that man makes then you will have to hold me down and force it into my body.”

He wonders if she thinks he was here to be unkind knowing there is nothing that he can say or do if it was true. He takes another breath. “No one will force anything upon you, my princess.”

“And perhaps, my lord, someone will force me and be pardoned for it all the same.” 

It is not because he is unused to such frankness from a woman he flinches again. He is too old to think there is justification for everything, be it his doing or anyone else’s. Though he wants to argue that he pardoned no one, silence is pardon enough. “Very well, I will make other arrangements for your droughts.”

There was no relief in her expression. She drops her head. It was not thanks. He would not know what to do or say even if it was. This is why he prompts, “Is there anything else I can do for you?” 

For a while she says nothing. Just when he was preparing to leave, she looks at him imploringly. “Since my lord is here I have a request, if you are amenable.”

He fights the urge to sigh, wishing he had the anger rather than this politeness from her. It would stain his heart less. “What is it, Princess?”

She wets her lips. Was she nervous? He nearly grimaces at his foolishness. Of course she was; any woman in her situation would be. “If it pleases him, I wish to see the King, at his leisure, of course.” 

Shocked and alarmed, he blurts, “Why?” 

“Now that things are settled in the city-“ 

She falters, breathes deeply, and starts again, “There is another matter which should be brought to your attention. I think the limits of the good sense of not acting with urgency has been stretched enough.” 

Ever since the farce of the Kingslayer’s trial she has worried him and this matter with Pycelle does not help. Only the gods know what she would say now. “Why?”

As she takes another rattling breath her eyes shine more. “I only as for ask for some moments. Fear not, I do not wish to speak to His Grace about the justice denied me.” Gods…

He breathes deep. “No one denies you, my Princess.” 

The lie burns on his tongue as it does on his mind. Though he said it with a clear voice, he cannot bring himself to look her in the eye. Robert denies her justice. _He_ denies her. 

_As High as Honor_. He had always tried to live up to the words. Thinking of the Targaryen children and of how he helps to hold her here to prevent the unleashing of her brothers’ wrath, when it comes to Elia Martell, he fails. Each day he hears about the ills done at the hands of men paid by Lannister gold and dismisses them as a cost of war, he fails. Still, he cannot admit it, least of all to her.

Even knowing the reply was coming, he stiffens. “Then, Lord Arryn, where are the heads of Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch? After all, that is what rapists and murderers deserve.” 

He fights the urge to look away. Damn Robert and damn whoever told her he said those things! Yet, it is not just that. He cannot be in the room with the woman and not think about things he failed to think of before it was too late. He already lost his nephews. Had events unfolded differently, it could have easily been Alys or her girls in Elia Martell’s stead. One of them died in the childbed because of the shock and the child died too. The mere thought of something more...“We cannot give them to you.”

Once more a hint of surprising steel creeps in her words as she asks, “Cannot or will not?”

He could give her a new healer, comfortable surroundings, and the freedom to think and speak ill of him. He cannot give her proper justice. The voice at the back of his mind he tries to push down tells him he gives her no justice at all. 

She laughs; a harsh sound he has not heard since the Kingslayer’s trial. Thinking he is a cause of it nearly makes him ill. “No matter, I know what justice is worth to men who smile at the corpses of children.” 

He wants to look away at her too-knowing eyes, yet, he forces himself to continue to look at her. 

“Every supplicant, and a guest in his home, has the right to desire to be heard by the King. I am still that, aren’t I?” 

He only just stops himself from grimacing. To let her see any reaction would only work in her favor, whatever her aim was. And he has shown her enough. Even then, she had the right of it. How different was he from Aerys if he did not give prisoners their due? However, nothing of the question explains she would want to see Robert. “Not everyone goes before a king. You might know this better than most.”

The bruises still on her face makes him think there was more disdain the curl of her lips seem to mean. For all that he is thrice wed and has sisters, this woman, who has all the reason to hate him and his, he does not know and she confounds him. Was there ever such a more perilous adversary than a noblewoman born and bred, familiar with the ways of court with legitimate grievances?

“I have gone in front of kings even when I wished it not. However, tell King Robert I have something for him. And you, for that matter. You will want to know and he will want to see me. It is of the utmost importance.”

Though he senses danger, Gods help him, he was curious. She appears so sure he would want to know. Thinking of how much wildfire they discovered he recognizes too well there was a great danger dismissing her claims. “Tell me, then! What do you have to tell him?”

To his shock and growing anxiety, this time, a sneer plays at her lips. “The truth behind Lyanna Stark’s disappearance.”

His eyes widen. All this time she knew? His voice sharpens, “You know where she had been taken?”

Even with the air of sorrow and grief about her, now her dark eyes seem to shine with something else. “I have conjecture regarding where, however, ’taken’, my lord?” 

Before he can even nod or question what she meant by the repetition, she laughs. Was it full of malice or madness? Perhaps both? Was it some ploy? What does it mean? 

He finds himself bracing himself for what he does not know when she shakes her head with her even, white teeth bared, framed around dark, twisted lips. “No, my lord, not she was not taken, she _went with_ ".

* * *

“My husband”, she says, shrugging, before going on, “Was with Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne when he went missing, but, what is important for you to understand is that she went with them willingly.”

“What!” It sounds no better the second time he hears it, but, Robert… 

“I swear it. She went with them by her own choice, Your Grace.” For all that she sounds demure there was a light in her eyes which caused him no end of worry.

“You dare fill my ears with filth and lies!” 

Showing little disturbance by Robert’s outburst, her chin rises. “I have letters which prove I do not lie, though I grant there is plenty of filth tied to this.” There was something so ugly in her expression, and something far too honest that Jon feels his dread continue to grow.

Robert growl out, “What letters? It is bad enough that beast took her, but, he wrote to her-”

Though he was certain she found nothing humorous her eyes almost seem to smile. “I am sure there were such letters; however, any he wrote to her would be in _her_ home not mine. Your betrothed wrote to my husband at Dragonstone. It was not as though they had much time together after that damnable tourney. It would have to be letters, wouldn’t it?” 

The only sound is Ser Barristan’s sharp intake of breath. How can she shrug as if these revelations were nothing, as if Lady Lyanna’s disappearance did not start this mess? She adds, “I daresay you will find the letters most illuminating.” The last word was drawled out as if the term could not possibly be restricted to the sentiment alone.

Cold triumph seeping into her tone, she goes on, “You are fortunate I found the damned things before Aerys all but dragged me and half the household here to answer for the crime of my husband’s disappearance, but, I know my suffering then is of no greater consequence to you than mine now. Yet, I think you should know what went on behind your backs.” 

Gods. What if she was telling the truth? 

Stepping near her, Robert growls out again, “Where are these damned letters then? Show them to me. No games or I will forget that you are a highborn woman.” 

The Lord Commander steps forward before hesitantly stopping, looking unsure. It is just as well. Robert might not take it kindly and it seems the lady wants none of his protection. “You have already forgotten it, Robert Baratheon. Everyone has forgotten it. If they had remembered, the corpses of Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch would be pecked at by vultures by now.”

While the new Lord Commander nearly looks ill at the reminder, Robert lets out a growl.

Her face hardens further, as she waves her hand around at the rooms she had not left since the Kingslayer’s trial. “I am playing no games. Perhaps I should. After all, what else do I have but the privilege to be surrounded by unjust men like you? If I was playing games at least then I might earn death and it would get me to my children quicker. Damn it all, Baratheon, haven’t I paid enough for the crime of simply being Rhaegar Targaryen’s wife? Why must I be guilty of being a liar, too?” 

Robert purples dangerously. It takes all his and Ser Barristan’s quickness to ensure Robert does not step even closer to her. For a moment it was a near thing when Robert easily shakes their efforts away. Only, after she tells them of a place in the Maidenvault he storms out of the room. Ser Barristan gives her one forlorn look before leaving, obviously to chase after Robert. 

He has no reason to think she tells the truth and yet… “There are letters?”

She looked down at her hands and his eyes follow to where the wounds of her unsuccessful struggle with Clegane are still visible. He looks up quickly only to see her damnably wet eyes boring into him. 

“Since you have been here, have I ever lied, Lord Arryn?”

Thinking of the wildfire they still are uncovering and the words spoken mere moments ago, the answer is ‘no’. Still, he adds, “You withheld the truth.”

She nods as if was nothing. “I did.” 

Even as he tells himself to keep his voice steady, his anger rises. “Do you know where she might be?”

Though it was little more than an unsteady huff which contained no levity, she laughs. “As I said, I can only guess. Men rarely confide to their wives about their mistresses, you see.”

Mistresses. Gods, perhaps they was better off not knowing, but, there was nothing he can do about it now. He must know now.

“For what my word might be worth to you now, I think my husband took her to Dorne.”

As the thought filters through his mind he sees her smile ruefully as though she knows exactly what he thinks. “Of my husband’s two constant companions, Ser Arthur was his dearest and Ser Arthur is of Dorne.”

She goes on, “If they wanted to hide, there is no better place to do so than where no one else would think to look.”

Even with her morose expression, she nods to herself as if to reassure that her reasoning is sound. 

It is as sickening as it is helpful and yet all he can ask is, “Why do you not _know_?”

She presses her lips together and then she sighs. “My husband never did tell me, ‘for my safety’ he claimed. I suppose he feared I would find it too easy to reveal the truth if I had known. As it is, I do not think I wanted to be certain, even if I was going to get an answer. I do not think I want to know now.” Her smile is a miserable twist of the lips.

Inconceivable! “Why not? Did you not press for information?” 

“Is somehow learning that my husband not only abandoned my children and me to play at being the Prince of Dragonflies with someone else’s woman playing the part of Jenny, especially if it is done in the lands of my people, going to please me?”

“It is not for your pleasure you should have pressed further. Do you not think it important for Lady Stark to be found? Did you not think it something you should know?” Did she not think they would have liked to know? Why had she kept silent for so long even if she only thought this? 

Her expression shifts and she leans forward. Somehow it makes her seem larger of frame than he knows hers to be. 

To his horror, she huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “I am under no obligation to give thoughts of Lyanna Stark’s location or safety precedence in my mind, especially since I found those damned letters. As for not saying anything about her, no one since Brandon Stark bothered mentioning finding her at all.” 

His eyes widen as she hits her mark. “Princess-“ 

She gives him a considering look. “No, in the interest of fairness, I should say that my former good-father sought to find her and my husband; however, I severely doubt he had their safety in mind. In fact, I am sure of the opposite.”

If he was not so shocked at the reply he would have acknowledged the flush of shame which fills him. He had not asked and this…“Think for a moment, Lord Arryn. I learned too late of my husband and her duplicity. Even then, I had to keep silent, for who could I tell? King Aerys? I do not have to tell you of his cruelty. What do you think her fate might have been if he got his hands upon her? And after not too long a time it ceased to matter what started it all and as I said, this is merely an impression I have.”

There is a noise. He turns to see Ser Barristan. For the unvoiced question he gets a nod from the Lord Commander. 

“Why would you keep this knowledge from us until now? You had days if not weeks. You told us of the wildfire plot.”

“I have no reason to think she is in any danger. The city was going to burn. You know there is a vast difference.”

Does he? Perhaps she was lying. If she was not…

Anger at the possibility of being duped building, for the first time he does not resist the urge to growl at her. “Why are you only telling us about Lyanna Stark now?”

How can she look shocked he would even ask her? She frowns. “Why should I have when I had other things to think about?”

He cannot believe what he is hearing! “You refused to say this because you had other things to think about? Do you not know how important it is for us to find her? To hear the truth from her own lips.”

The woman closes her eyes, her face looking as pained as it did earlier. She takes a shuddering breath. “Before Jaime Lannister killed him my so-called good-father was going to kill me one way or another. My children are dead. I will never even get to see my brothers again. Hearing the truth of how this all started from Lady Stark’s lips might be important to you. What good is it going to do for me? In fact, I am shocked you would demand I ask questions more when it is only I who has answers, though you do not ask the questions you should be.”

He frowns. What did she mean? Was she speaking of the wildfire? He could not have known. How could he? He only knew to ask her about Lyanna Stark now. He turns to Ser Barristan who looks as nonplussed as he feels. “What questions am I not asking?”

Why does the look on her face appear to be pity now? What could he do about it if it was? “To start, you have not asked me what dragon was nearest your heir when Aerys had him killed.”

Jerking backwards he barely registers Ser Barristan’s severe gasp. It takes everything in him to push down the bile which threatens to surge forward. “Why should I want to know that? Why would you tell me that?” Just thinking of it makes his eyes burn.

She struggles to sit up again. “Perhaps I am being too cruel. Why should you ask such questions? After all, if you are full of will enough not to ask why should a man go as he pleases after he uses a girl of three as a pincushion though he uses a sword instead of a needle or that another who murdered a babe and defiled his mother with the blood on his hands does, then why would you ask if your nephew started screaming before his skin start to blister from the strength of the flames, whether the stench of his burnt flesh had not faded before the stench of another’s replaced it, or that if I feared the same fate. You could ask all that and yet, all you want to is why a knight would kill a murderer, why I do not drink the potions made by a sycophantic letch, and why should I be concerned about the whereabouts of a willful woman-child.”

She sits back and takes a deep breath. “Lord Arryn, what could she possibly say or do now that would matter? Having her brought back here is not going to make me stop remembering the humiliating way my husband treated me or Aerys dragging me back here to answer questions I do not know the answers to. It is not going to help me forget how each moment I am awake I imagine what the sound of my daughters terrifying screams would have sounded like or that each time I look at my empty hands I see my son’s blood. Find her, do not find her, what difference is it going to make?”

Not trusting himself, he steps back. He has no interest in remaining longer than he has to. It had been a mistake to come. 

Before he can leave he hears a cough. Then, he hears only one more word: “Syrax.” 

He closes his eyes and he shivers. He hates himself because Elbert died in flames and here he was. What right did he have to feel hot? To feel weak?

And still, he turns back to the woman. “It was by design?”

He phrases it as a question though he can see she knows it was not. “These past years, each innocent who died in this fortress did so by design.”

Did she think he could forget? He spits out, “Why do you tell me any of this?”

“I remember what Aerys once said, ‘What good is pride if you have nothing else’. Even when I do not like it, that monster was right. I do not have justice for my children, but, I know I have a body and heart which ache constantly. I have that and answers.” The grim twist of her mouth masquerading for a smile is ugliest thing he as ever seen.

“Lord Arryn, my mind is troubled enough without trying to carry the weight of other people’s unpunished lies and crimes. I am used up, discarded, soiled, and alone. You want to know what I know and there are things I should tell you; so, I will tell you. Perhaps it is selfish of me, but, I have told you what I suspect because I do not have much of anything else for you.”

The words which came after that ugly smile were even more hideous. He tries not to be, yet, he is thankful for the lack of that damnable wetness from her. He feels enough of it at the back of his own eyes. 

He is not supposed to be this man. He went to war to give justice to innocents, to protect them, not to see the vanquished offer up whatever tribute they can manage to in fear of being denied decency or mercy. There was a foul taste in his mouth at the thought. He knows she does not have to fear it. 

“Princess-“ He stops.

Though he wants to say ‘I do not need anything more from you’ he cannot bring himself to. If he said them they would be a lie. The truth is he wants no more answers from her. He has had enough.

Saying no more, he leaves the room and the woman inside it thinking every time he leaves them, it was as though a taint follows him out. He wonders if it ever will be different.

* * *

The knock on the door came too late and not quick enough. 

“Jon, I was told you wanted to see me.” 

He considers himself fortunate Ned’s grey eyes were not staring at him. They were looking at a copy of Malleon’s tome which was one of the few things taking up temporary occupancy in his solar. 

“Why do you have these?”

He takes a deep breath. This is easy. It gives him something to do except glare the letters before him. Dark winds dark words, men say. The words are not dark and that is what makes them darker. 

He decides calling attention to them can wait. Waiting a little longer probably will not hurt anyone. Probably not even Lyanna Stark. “They are for Elia Martell.”

Ned’s brows furrow. “Her books?”

“And some jewelry.” 

“Why?”

To explain, he says, “Why not? It is not as though Robert will have any use for them, the books or the jewels. His future queen, whoever she may be, has no need for Targaryen pieces. Robert certainly will not abide by such a thing. He does not want to abide by her presence and if she is not welcome I do not see why her things will be. It only makes sense for them to be returned to her.”

To replace children they are paltry offerings, but, whatever he can give her he will. 

If anything Ned looks more confused. “What do you mean Robert will not abide by her?”

_“I don’t care where you put her. Put her in a manse, put her in a hole, I want her gone. Get her away from me!”_

“I have been told I am to acquire new lodgings for her in the city. She will be guarded of course, but, Robert does not want her in the Red Keep.” Though he does not say it, he thinks it might be easier on him as well. 

“Are you selling them to provide for it?” 

It was only the horrified look on Ned’s face which stops him from snapping back about his not being so craven. Ned will likely think it of him soon enough. “No. I would pay for it myself if I have to, but, that is not why you are here.”

Ned jerks slightly. “Why am I here?”

He thinks, ‘May the Gods give him strength for this.’

He gestures to the table. “Sit. Drink. Do that first.” He does not say Ned may need it for what he has to hear. He had. Furious and hurt, Robert certainly took his fill and more.

When Ned settles into his chair, his former ward peers at him, concerned. “What is it Jon, you seem troubled.”

Troubled? He is more than troubled. The ache in his head from this morning only worsened. He does not know where to begin. Rather than speak he nearly shoves the sheets of paper at Ned. He does not want to touch them any more, like the words said to him, the words written on them written by a different woman are burned into his mind. 

Though he takes them, Ned’s brow furrow. “What are these?” 

He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. There was nothing for it. “Is it your sister’s writing?”

Ned looks up, shocked. “What?”

Harsher than Ned deserves, waving a hand at those sheets of parchment, he repeats, “Is that your sister’s writing?” 

“My sis-What? What is this, Jon?” 

In the face of Ned’s confusion, once again Jon wishes he did not have to do this, yet, he must. “Read. You will see.” 

Elia Martell had not lied. When he read those ugly words he wanted to burn the paper they were written on. He did not know whether or not to be thankful Robert had not torn the letters in his rage. They will not be easy for Ned to read, but, this almost-son to him cannot remain in darkness. They all remained in darkness for too long.

Soon enough, too soon _and perhaps not soon enough_ , Ned’s eyes go wide in shock and horror.

When he was done, Ned sinks back into his chair and closes his eyes. His face is tinged green. He had seen this before, only once, when Ned found out about Lord Rickard and Brandon’s deaths. He was livid. What must Ned feel? 

“What does this mean?” That was the question, was it not?

Again, he takes a steadying breath. “It means we were under a great misapprehension.” It is more than misapprehension, but, there are no words he can think of for this betrayal of Lady Lyanna’s. 

Instead, he speaks on the matter at hand. “We believe she is in Dorne.”

Ned sits up. “What! Why? How do you come to that conclusion?”

“That is what Princess Elia believes.”

“She told you this?” Ned sounds dubious. Jon cannot blame him because he had not wanted to believe her, and still, certain other things were highly suggestive. 

If they went North, someone loyal to the Starks would have discovered them by now and so it had to be South. It was not likely they left for Essos. Anyone else who could tell them where the girl was happened to be dead or likely with the girl. While he certainly has no reason to trust Elia Martell’s goodwill, where else could that girl be they have not looked?

“She produced the letters. She also offered some insight we clearly lacked. Prince Rhaegar had two companions, one from the Riverlands and the other Dornish. Your sister went missing on the way to Riverrun and none of her companions knew where she went. It would be too easy to find them if they remained in the Riverlands. Who would dare look for one’s mistress in the place of one’s wife’s people? Who would even think someone could be so shameless?”

He knows the words are cruel, even before he sees Ned’s stricken expression, but, he is in no mood to be generous the dead fool of a prince or that thoughtless, selfish girl. What had she been thinking? 

As angry as he was, he nearly snorted. If Prince Rhaegar took leave of his senses what could he expect from that girl? Those letters showed him enough she had not been thinking of her family, her honor or that of her house, or anyone else’s. 

Thankfully, a knock interrupts the need for them to speak. “Enter!”

His squire shuffles in, “My Lord, you sent for me?”

Ned startles, but, Jon has something he needs to do, no matter how much he finds it troubling. Pah! All of this is troubling. “I need you to deliver a message to Princess Elia.” 

The boy’s eyes widen as do Ned’s. “But-”

He clenches his jaw. There are too many unanswered questions and he does not have the patience for his squire’s as well. Not today. Once more his anger is directed to where it should not be, but, he needs this done. “You are to go to Princess Elia’s chambers and simply deliver a message.” 

Still, apprehensive, the lad nods, “What is it, my lord?”

”Tell her to expect me on the morrow.”

When alone again with Ned asks, “You mean to see her?” 

The doubt he hears causes him to snap back, “Do not concern yourself with her.” He does not say, ‘Concern yourself with your sister’, but, only just.

Still hearing it, Ned retorts, “There was a price for her cooperation.”

Even if divulging her secrets serves her interests rather than theirs, the uncovering of wildfire alone proves Elia Martell’s worth, especially to those who lived in this city. The tale of her kindness to the Kingslayer spread out of King’s Landing. There were still far too many who remembered the better days under Aerys. Treat this Dornishwoman more ill and they’d have another mess on their hands. Eyeing the letters, he has enough of a mess to content with.

“Nearly everyone is paying a price. Some already paid steep enough prices.” 

Ned opens his mouth, obviously to make some sort of objection. To prevent it, he proposes, “She is going to remain in King’s Landing for the foreseeable future and whatever can be done so that Dorne grumbles less is best for us all.”

Jon hopes Ned will let the matter of Elia Martell drop. Robert’s rule was too new to afford more scandal and this would provide enough of it. Robert wants her out of the way. What keeps the Dornishwoman sweet and quiet is good enough for him at present.

“These could be forgeries.”

He already considered that, however, Ned’s reaction to them has already put paid to possibility. Yet, he asks, again. “Is it her writing or isn’t it?”

Ned frowns. Then, he admits, “It looks very much like it, but, it might not be hers. Even if it is, this could still be a mistake.”

He wished he could share in Ned’s hope, yet, he cannot. “Did you know she had not wanted to marry Robert?”

The way Ned does not look at him tells him what he already knew. “When the match was once proposed I knew she had reluctance. I thought it would lessen in time and she had come south. There was no reason to think she would not have gone through with it.”

_“Did you not hear the woman Jon, ‘Any letters he wrote to her would be in her home'. My so-called betrothed was probably laughing along with that whoreson.”_

There is no mistaking it when the words are clear as glass. “I understand she is your sister, Ned, and you would have everyone think the best of her. And perhaps, as you say, it might not be her writing. What cannot be mistaken is how one of the notes speaks of where she would be staying on the road to Riverrun for your brother’s wedding. There are not so many people who would know that and fewer who would be familiar enough about her to know that there is nothing save a reluctance to marry Robert and more than one declaration of love towards the prince in those wretched things. Which part are we supposed to be mistaken about? You must find her and bring her here.”

Ned jerked sharply, his face tinged grey as his eyes. “Is this your command? Bring her here? So that Robert would question her as one does a criminal?”

Had this been any other circumstance Jon would have liked to comfort and reassure Ned, but, he cannot. Thinking of how distraught Robert had been, remembering his _dead_ nephews, and the men under his command who died on the battlefield trying to get justice for those who were butchered because of what he knows now to be the selfishness of a small pack of fools, he cannot help but bark out, “You might not need to hear her answers, Robert does and he is not the only one. Even if you do not need to know the truth from her lips, there are others who do and it is not as though we can get answers from Aerys or Rhaegar. I have a right to know what she had been thinking if she did at all.”

Ned’s eyes narrow. “What rights do you mean?”

In this moment he cannot be moved. “I have the right to ask her if all of this was worth the deaths of my heirs and my men.”

Ned’s eyes widen. He whispers, “Aerys is responsible for that.” 

“Do you think I have forgotten? Or could ever forget. Let me tell you, Ned, I know more about the nature of those deaths than I ever should. I love you and I know you love your sister, but, do not pretend there would have been a war or that before it Elbert would have been here for Aerys to kill if your sister had not gone missing with the Targaryen Prince. Neither would your father or your brother. Do you not think I deserve to know whether she thinks it was worth it?”

He knew they were the wrong words to say and still he could not find it in him to take them back. Breathing heavily, he is only too relieved this once almost-son to him thinks better of saying something and leaves, closing the door sharply behind him.

Sitting back in his chair and closing his eyes Jon sighs again, feeling every bit as old and tired and more. 

He could have reacted better. He should have reacted better, but, damn it all, there was only so much he could do. 

Try as he might he cannot help and stare at those wretched letters once more. His hands clench at his sides.

He stooped so low as to marry a soiled girl to give him men to fight a war to avenge Elbert, one that he continued to fight in memory of dear, fallen Denys, and in the name of his one-time wards who still dreamt of the time they would be family. Now he knows Elia Martell was telling the truth of Lyanna Stark. What was it all for?

 _As High as Honor_. He lived those words, but, gods, these days they weigh upon him like chains. His honor had been corrupted enough of late and he does not know if anything he does will remedy that.

* * *

He watches two crates being set in Princess Elia’s room. Thankfully, she looked better than she had the last time he had been in these rooms. Today she was seated upright in a low couch watching the proceedings with something akin to anticipation. 

That in itself was not surprising. Jaime Lannister’s presence was. ‘Ser Jaime had been kind enough to sit with me’ she had said, when he entered the room. He wondered how the man spent his time. Even if he was reinstated to the once proud order, Robert certainly had not wanted the Kingslayer underfoot or anywhere near him.

He wanted to order the knight out of the room, but, she seemed to accept his presence and he decided against it. At any rate, a Jaime Lannister hovering at the elbow of Elia Martell would be too busy to kill a king. Still, it was irritating when the younger man caught him staring the Kingslayer glared at him. 

“Thank you, Lord Arryn.” 

Before he can respond she turns to the knight. “Ser Jaime, if you would.” The knight moves so quickly to put the first tome in her hands it was as if he would rather do nothing else. He wonders at how this is the same knight who sneered at him since he entered the rooms. 

For moment she smiles and he thinks he did at least one thing correctly. “My Aegon loves-“ Whatever tension in his back which eased returned all too quickly when she corrects, “ _loved_ it when I read him passages from this one. Didn’t he, Ser Jaime?”

There was a tremble in the man’s wrist and the voice, usually filled with hauteur, sounds cowed. “Yes he did, Princess.” Whatever eagerness the Kingslayer had when he handed her the tome vanished when she put the book down so quickly it was almost as if she threw it. On the knight’s face was a look so pained he almost felt pity for the man. At the trial he wanted to see any signs of guilt and remorse. This…

Before he says anything, in favor of ignoring the books she turns to the jewelry a shade too willing. He does not question it. To his confusion she starts separating the pieces into two piles. No one says a word until she is finished and she points to one. “Lord Arryn, if you could send those to Sunspear, I would be most appreciative of it.”

Not understanding, he queries, “To Sunspear?”

This time when she tries to smile he knows better than to trust it will remain. “I brought them with me before I was wed. Once I thought to give them to my daughter.” He did not have to be a seer to predict how quickly she would pale and her eyes would shut tightly in a new wave of grief. He knows she will blink the tears back. When her eyes open again and she when speaks her voice is flat, “I think it only right my nieces have them.” 

There was no satisfaction in seeing Jaime Lannister nearly hang his head.

There was no sense of satisfaction in him at all. Robert drowns his sorrows by going to hunt after losing himself in wine and women. _“Do what you want, Jon. I don’t care”_. When Ned left with a handful of his men to search for his sister, their farewells, at best, can be called stilted. Now, there was this.

How many burdens must he shoulder? How many people’s pain can he erase? What more must he do?

He doubts he will ever have an answer.

For now, there is an answer he has to give, "It will be done."

She smiles again. It was not a true one, not that he expected it would be. "Thank you for being so kind to me, Lord Arryn."

He can do nothing except nod his head thinking the taint still remains.


	3. Ned, 283 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly: Let me thank the lovely Sigrid_Martell who not only encourages me to write, but, also gave the early drafts of this chapter much appreciated look-overs.
> 
> Secondly: The disclaimer: I own nothing. All things recognizable are property of G.R.R. Martin, David Benioff, D.B. Weiss, & company, & the asoiaf wiki.
> 
> Thirdly: As always, thanks for the reads, comments, kudos, and bookmarks.
> 
> Finally: After much introspection and personal despondency, I was finally able put in my notice for my second job. As such, I can now unleash the angst I no longer need. You have been warned. ;)

He feels cold. This manse, nestled in a row of them, seemed untouched by war and by the stench permeating the rest of the capitol and he feels cold. He should not feel this cold in King’s Landing. It is wrong.

He tries to ignore the feeling by telling himself that it was simple anxiousness from leaving Jon at the Red Keep while he finished this last of the few errands left to him. Still, Howland’s offer to remain barely managed to soothe him. 

He takes a breath to calm himself. It fails. 

This sitting room, typical of Southron opulence and comfort, bothers him. Brightly lit with cushioned sofas, it almost reminds him of the one at the Eyrie. Only, this was not the one in the Eyrie nor could he find peace in the similarity. The colors were different, he was not in the Vale, and that felicitous time when he enjoyed the Eyrie was long gone. Most of all, the difference was in how the creak of the door revealed neither the once benevolent master of the place or friends of his youth. Rather, it showed him Elia Martell, dressed in plain black, hair arranged in a simple braid, with dark eyes standing out against that pale face.

Try as he might to prevent it, his mood darkens. Though she might be one in this thrice accursed city capable of mourning, while she might have mourned his early losses, his newest, she would not and because of it…

He closes his eyes to stall whatever this was and may become. While Howland had been encouraging it was not easy being here. His most recent, brief respective meetings with Robert and Jon were difficult enough and he attributed Ser Barrristan’s less than cordial welcome to his own unique grief. Though months passed, the events before he left are still prominent in his memory and this woman, perhaps unwittingly if unquestionably, was at the center of the maelstrom which tore through his life.

Ambivalence aside, his manners win out as he rises and gives her a low bow. He sees the effort she takes to breathe while returning a curtsey. Though they remain at some distance from one another he can see red around her eyes. 

Warmth was not something which came to him often and Elia Martell... Though he railed at what allowed her to live in this manse and while he thought other more personal concerns cooled much of his feelings towards her long ago, now…

Now Gerold Hightower, Oswell Whent, and Arthur Dayne were dead while he lived. 

He lives because they are dead.

The lowliest dredge learns of the rise of knights and even more stories tell of they fall. No matter how those men might have been perceived as the enemy by those who reign in this city now, it was not true for him. The pained expression before him shakes him because the still fresh blood on his hands belonged to men she knew. He does not like the reminder.

He take another breath, this one rattling loudly in the silence.

“Ah, my Lord Stark, I apologize for keeping you waiting, but, I received grave news from Dorne.” 

He looks away at the way her eyes scream “more grave news”. 

Though he desires to put up a calm front and he should be able to, he cringes. Did she not know he dealt the blow to men who served her, one of them her own countryman? Must she make him admit it? Was that it?

He turns away from the shine and red tint her eyes. 

“I apologize if this is nothing new to your ears however ravens are not among the freedoms I am afforded and so must make do with what I am given.” 

Attention sharply returning to her, he scowls. He does not want to hear the list of freedoms she is afforded or the ones not. 

But, because she seems to think that is where his arguments lay, she deems it necessary to explain, “What little correspondence I have is delivered to and from the Red Keep. I doubt my addressing this latest tragedy matters overmuch when enough have likely been doing so themselves.” 

Having felt relief in learning Robert would be away until nightfall and Jon was to be occupied in meetings he tried to pay attention to little else. Grimly, he thinks this explains some the attitude and stares directed towards him even as the words stun him with fear. It was not the prospect of the Red Keep read this woman’s correspondence, rather, the idea of Robert and Jon, among countless others, learning of more he does not wish for them to, forces him to speak more softly than he otherwise would. “Latest tragedy?” 

Though the set of her shoulders and chin shows an attempt at proving a steel-like disposition, the lady’s voice shakes. “Ashara Dayne is dead.” 

He jerks back in shock and horror. No, she must be mistaken. He had only- It cannot be. Reeling, he sits back down. He thinks of that once lively woman he met before it all fell apart and the solemn stately woman he saw only recently. It should not be. “Impossible. I was in Starfall not too long ago. I saw her.” 

Taking another deep breath, she shook her head slowly. “They say soon after you left she threw herself from the Palestone Sword. I am so sorry, Lord Stark, she is gone.”

Death has been a constant companion for far too long and still something in him twists at the knowledge of another life snuffed out so needlessly. It must be a lie, it has to be. She cannot be gone too, not because of him. 

The princess frowns; there was some frustration, and perhaps anger in it. Most of all, as his heart sinks further, he sees pure tiredness. “Why?” He says that rather than the question he should ask. _“Did I cause it?”_

Once more he looks away from her glistening eyes under her deeply furrowed brow. And the pity he does not want from her. “She lived to see her child die, then her lover, then the friends she knew as children, and now her brother. Any is a good reason for most. There is a limit to how much she was willing to take and I do understand it. She would have done what she did if that is what she wanted. She always was a stubborn one.” 

While there was pride in the tone, the lady’s voice cracks before she closes her eyes again and exhales deeply. He cannot stand it. Ashara Dayne, he thinks again, with more than a tinge of guilt. Even standing somberly as she gazed at the sword in his hands, she had been one of the loveliest he had ever seen, _“Thank you for bringing Dawn to us.”_

And now she was gone too.

The vision of Ashara Dayne floats away leaving him with the sight of Elia Martell glancing about the room gazing at it as if seeing it for the first time rather than having lived in the house for as many weeks as he had been gone. When she looks at him once more, she nods emphatically. “And brave. Ashara was so very brave.”

Rather than take it as the compliment it was likely meant to be, hearing the implied, bitter “I am not” chills him more than the coldest winds of the home he misses ever had.

Looking at small frame Elia Martell so pale and all but drowned in yards of black cloth, he thinks brokenly of proper things Father or Brandon would have said when he finds himself choking on words. 

If they still lived he was certain they would not have wanted to be here speaking the words he should say. Unlike them, he is no good at this and he never used to have to be. He resolves to make do with platitudes. He has little else to offer the woman even if he could think of more to say about another casualty of war. “She was that, yes.”

Seeing her take another deep breath, he recognizes empty words are not all he has; he has a question. While Elia Martell was not the person he wanted to ask, perhaps she the only one he could. “Did you know who her child’s father had been?”

While with knowledge of this child’s death and the mother’s the question might serve little purpose now, of late this thoughts were consumed with those of young women in the midst of war who became mothers. 

Clearly unsurprised at the question, she gives him the response he is expecting. “It was Lord Brandon, yes.” 

All the same, he flinches. Was. Brandon, who would be brave enough to get an Ashara Dayne to dance with him and dashing enough to get more, that Brandon is gone while he remains with what ought to have been his brother’s. More than a year has passed and it feels very wrong. Everything is wrong.

The sympathetic look she gives him is difficult to bear, yet, her next words are harder to endure. “Lord Stark, though it would bring me some amount of joy to remember what should have been happy days, now be it my friend, your brother, or that innocent child, they are beyond our help. No, this is the time to speak of other matters.”

Startled, he blurts, “Other matters?” 

She wets her lips and looks down. Though her nervousness is evident, her voice, a courtier’s through and through, proposes, “I wish to help you.”

He grimaces in bewilderment. Help? Who? Who was she in any position to help? How can she help? “What help could you possibly be?”

One side of her mouth twitches. “I can be of great help to my husband’s son.”

His heart freezes. It takes everything in him to stop from gaping. She knew? How did she know? How could she have come to? Did she tell anyone? Before he could even think of how to answer any of those questions others came to mind. Did she truly know or had she guessed? Was this a game of hers? No, he cannot-“What son?”

Now, she shakes her head wildly; much of the previous softness she displayed is gone as if it never existed. He flinches at the piercing gaze. The others had not questioned Jon’s existence after a few curious glances and murmurs. This woman…It was as though she could see through him and know him as the liar he is. “No, Lord Stark, please do not pretend with me.”

Shared mourning of Brandon and Ashara Dayne cast aside, now he remembers all too well of how this woman’s letters caused the rift between Robert, Jon, and himself. This room was proof of how she was rewarded for revealing Lyanna’s secrets. He stiffens. He will not let her have this ruin more, not the expense of the boy. Not when he promised. Sharply, he rebukes, “You are mistaken. He is my son.”

Just as sharply she glances at the door and then back at him. “He is no more yours than he is mine.” 

He goes to speak and she holds up a hand. She steps closer, despite the urge he holds his stance. “Once I allowed myself to be mistaken and it cost me greatly. I do not have much else to give if I am mistaken again and I do not have any intension of being so. I know who he is. Please, let us not pretend.”

His chest feels too tight to respond to the possibly unintended barb. “Even if I take what you say to be true-” He ignores the sharp look. “What are you going to do?” What are you going to do with him, with both of them? What can she do? What depths will she sink to? 

She raises her chin. “Ask that when you leave King’s Landing, you leave him with me.”

Horrified, disbelieving, and growing angry, he rises again, yelling, “You dare-”

With a sharp glance at the closed door, she hisses, “Keep your voice low, my lord.” 

He glares. She intends on upending his world again and his voice was her concern? 

She moves to puts a hand on his arm. When he shakes it off, she shrugs, but, her stance makes it seem as though she was prepared for a battle. 

“We are alone for now, however, there might be someone listening. I do not wish to let anyone know about this. Our lives, and more importantly his, depend on it. ” 

He flinches at the warning. A gurgle bubbles up from his throat at the way she nods as if satisfied. Her face flushed and eyes brimming again, she further cautions. “It is good that you see that a friend to dragons is a dangerous thing to be. My poor babies learned it is a more damning thing to be spawned from dragons. I do not wish the same fate for this one.”

Bile rises in his throat. He remembers how Robert and Jon looked at him after Lyanna’s letters were revealed. Even as his mind dredges up Robert’s vehemence at the sight of dead Targaryen children, in his short time back he heard snatches about Robert’s anger at the escape of Aerys’ now two children to wherever it was they were going. 

‘Calm yourself’, he chides internally even as he fails at it again. “If it is as dangerous as you say, it is better he leaves here.”

She smiles sadly. “That is why I suggest he remain.”

Thinking she might have become mad, he rears back. “What gives you the right to even suggest it?”

She looks at him blandly. “A child needs a mother.”

He blinks back the memory of the mother whose love and fear for her child caused him to take the boy to glare at this woman. She speaks as though she can provide what he cannot as though he would allow such a thing. “He had a mother.” 

Though he tries not to let the ill feelings towards this one intensify, they do when her lips twitch again. His temper nearly erupts when she blithely adds, “He had a ‘had’ a mother, not ‘has’ as I had children and no longer do.”

He shudders as she just as quickly gives him a piteous look. “But, yes, you are correct, he had a mother. Now, however a capable the nurse you brought him might be, there is no other to take upon the role. I am able and willing.” 

Something in him sinks leaving dread rising in its wake. Wasn’t Lyanna dying alone and afraid in her lands, begging her brother to not hate her child enough revenge for her that she desire his sister’s child? Why does she want this? “He will have what I give him. He can have all of me and my own. He has no need of you.” 

She looks pained as she takes a step back. She licks her lips again and looks away. He almost takes solace in her hesitance except she spoke again, “Your own now includes your lady wife.”

He is unmistaken in her meaning. Agitated, he snaps, “What of it?” 

She shakes her head. “Please do not tell me you expect your wife to welcome the babe in her motherly embrace?” 

She had not stepped closer and he feels as if she slapped him. She speaks of the prospect as though it is horrific. But, then, she laughs; an ugly thing to his ears. She shakes her head. “You seem intent on giving yourself easily avoided trouble. You do not know Southron women. Take the boy to her and it will cause no end misery, if not yours than hers and certainly his.” 

Even in his short time with Catelyn, he knew her to be a good woman. Even if it was easy to see how disappointed she was to have received him and not Brandon, she had been dutiful. “She is not you.” 

He says this, but, when a shadow passes across the woman’s face his doubts grows further. 

They grow feverish when she adds, “Then she is fortunate. However, I do not need to be her to know how unwelcome this would be. It would be ill-omened to bring the child to her.”

The firmness in her tones forces him to hesitate. Catelyn, wife to him and now mother to his heir, was a stranger to him. With her Southron ways and gods might be similar in thought to this one. The ways of Dorne were never a concern for him, but, south _was_ south. A traitorous, long unheard since his youth comes to him, sneering of how Dorne was seen as more permissive and if one born of Dorne was warning him...

Before he lets the fear consume him, he tempers it. This woman’s surety poisoned the minds of those he held close against his sister, his now dead sister. It was madness to give Rhaegar’s wife, _widow_ , his sister’s son let alone any power over his mind. He should not yield to her. Pity for her circumstances or acknowledgment of her views should not let him be guided against what he knew was best for him and his. As it was, who was she to tell him what Catelyn was? “She is sensible and kind. She is a proper lady.”

Shrugging as if his words are unimportant, she shakes her head at him as if he was some green boy. Obviously displeased, she retorts, “And what proper lady would suffer such an offense? Marry a woman for her father’s men after she lost the man she was intended for and without her leave or forewarning dump a child on her who she will see as the reason that man is dead? You expect her to suffer the reminder of this each day, demand she feed him, cloth him, and possibly even love him with no complaint?” 

Had she not invoked Lyanna’s inadvertent role in Brandon’s death, it would be plain enough this was no well-wisher of his, but, he does not need her warnings. He has a solution and no need for her involvement. _He desires nothing from her._ “For her, too, he will be my bastard.”

Her cheeks reddened and her dark eyes narrow into slits. Shock, he expected, horror even, but, she practically shakes in the throes of a fierce anger. “Lord Stark, when a woman marries she leaves her family, her people, the ways she knows, and even her gods, to be at the mercy of a stranger who she can only hope would treat her well enough and you plan on repaying your wife’s sacrifices by spitting upon the words she spoke to you in good faith? Folly does not begin to describe what you intend, Lord Stark.” 

Struck with dismay, he watches as she sends him a disgusted look before she takes a deep breath and another one after that. While her countenance softens minutely, her words are unyielding. “Though it speaks highly of your desire to spare her the pain of learning this boy is the reason she lost the future she once dreamed of, I do not think this course is wise. Telling her that you decided to raise your bastard along-side the son she bore you during the war is not going endear the boy or you to her, Lord Stark. It will do the opposite.”

 _He knows_. Even without this warning he feels it. He is sickened by what he must do and the lies he must tell, but, this is a sacrifice he must make. He promised Lyanna. Catelyn’s pride can withstand this. She will have to accept it.

The woman shakes her head again. “Decency, Lord Stark, is rare in men and becoming rarer still. If you truly believe doing such a thing is acceptable then you are more shameless than I could have possibly imagined.” 

His temper flares again. He does not need another reminder of how shameless she finds his family. Months ago with those letters she produced, that had been enough. “I do not have to explain myself to you.” 

She snorts. “You owe your wife an explanation and the lies you intend on telling her are far from adequate. You know the Tully words. While the boy might be your family, he is not hers. If you take the boy with you all you will tell her, her family, and the world is that that while she was doing her duty to you, you dishonored her. Each time she sees him, that lie you choose to make her live, the festering wound of your lie will grow and grow. If you cannot give your lady, the Lady of Winterfell and wife of the Warden of the North, honesty and respect, how can you expect others to? No wife deserves cruelty from the man who at least promised his protection.”

He will not fall into this obvious trap. Not with this woman, not now. “My wife, _my family_ , is not your concern.”

She insists, “That you intend on this foolishness makes it my concern. When this boy is my husband’s son, he certainly is my concern.”

This time he is the one to shake his head. “He is of my blood. Not yours.” 

Though she grimaces, she tries again. “He is also of my children’s blood. Theirs is shed like his father, yours, and your brother’s.”

There were blows in battle he felt less than her words, but, he cannot let himself drown in sorrow because her volley continues, “But, I do not speak of blood, I speak of the cruelty you intend for your wife and the child.” 

Anger rises once again, but, he tells himself to suppress it. No matter her circumstances or how fierce the sting of her words, this was a woman of noble birth who was under the crown’s protection, the very crown he helped Robert get. Not even Lyanna’s death softened Jon and Robert towards her. If this one was to reveal what she knows. Even if she cared at all for the life of the child, who knows what she might reveal if he pushes her. He will simply have to make her see…

He grits his teeth and bites out, “There is no cruelty in raising a child among his family.”

His family, now one of the few. Even if Lyanna had not begged, the boy is of his blood. 

She breathes heavily and frustratingly, the sadness permeating the air around the woman only grows as she, shoulders slumped, sinks down into the nearest divan. “You would lie to him and force him to live among you, but, with this fiction you already know he will never truly be a part of your family. How can you not see the cruelty in that?”

He knows this, but, he has no other choice. His frustration at her inability to understand this grows along with his fear. “I will deny him nothing.”

In her short stature, even when both are sitting she has to look up at him. She does this with her eyes widening. “You deny him your name from the beginning.”

If he was the type to laugh or could have at this he would have. “He would have never had his father’s name.” That, at least, is a mercy. It also should please her, he thinks unkindly. 

Though she nods in agreement, his relief is short lived. “Perhaps so, but, my lord, what you intend to do is most unkind.”

This time he shakes his head. “Raising him amongst his people is not cruel.”

Giving him a near-defeated look, she sighs. “Take him North and he’ll always be your greatest conspicuous failure. Even if you ignore how your wife will suffer for it, be it in silence or not, why do that to an innocent child? To raise the boy amidst what will never truly be his is the height of malice. Keep him with me and he will never know how hollow being close and never quite reaching makes a person.”

He does not want to think of what those words mean. He cannot allow her words more strength when her words already proved troublesome for him and his.

“Why do you want him so badly?”

“I mean to give him a gift.” 

Incredible! What about this woman can be called a gift? “What gift can a hostage give him that I cannot?”

Obviously gaining some strength back, her rouge painted lips part, hinting at white teeth. “I mean to give him a life of his own choosing.”

Disbelieving, he retorts, “He can chose in the North, with me.”

Her head jerks to the side. “Can he? Even in Dorne there are so few choices left to bastards. What sort of life does a Snow lead? Will he be able to manage holdfasts in his ‘brother’s’ name without making your lady or her father fearful or some jumped up bannerman eager? Will you expect he learn to serve where once he was family? Or will he do so elsewhere such as in the form of a Maester or as a man of the Night’s Watch? Which one would allow for him to lead his own life? In the end, none of them, Lord Stark. Can you even say with any certainly he will choose among those of his own volition or will he because there is little else for him?” Only the touch of sadness in her voice barely allows him to think she was judicious in her inquiry and not sneering outright.

He takes a deep breath. Her words damn him for their truth. The lot of a bastard is rarely kind, but, what else can he do without making things worse? Why does she willfully ignore that? “Why does this matter to you so much?”

She does not answer his question. Instead, she says, “While it is good you seek to allow him a life unhampered by what his father would have turned him into, with this fiction you foist upon think hard, Lord Stark, of your choices. The consequences will be severe.” 

The way her eyes narrow chills him. They tell him she was not done and her words only prove his impressions correct. “More than that, he deserves better than your attempt to assuage your own pain.”

Horrified, now sitting upright, he reproaches, “This is not about my pain!” How dare she?

Now, she sneers. “Isn’t it? Are you not using him to piece together the tatters of family your sister helped create? Can you truly say that you will see him as anything besides a symbol of everything you lost?” 

Before he could even find the words, she sighs heavily. “As it is, I cannot trust your affections to remain because you do not know what Rhaegar was truly after when he turned his attentions towards your sister in the first place.”

Previous self-admonishment all but forgotten, he does not curb his next words, “Am I to take the ravings of Rhaegar Targaryen’s jealous widow as truth?”

She laughs. It is a sound both bright and punishing. “You have been listening, but, this is not jealousy, Lord Stark.” She shakes her head softly. “Would that it was.” That came out as a whisper.

With that, she rises and walks over to a shelf, pulling out two thin tomes, both far from each other on the shelf her books rested. When she turns around her teeth gleam as bright as her dark eyes.

“I showed your dear friend and the Hand letters once. Now, I must show you some books.” 

He burns with the clear insult.

However, with her face now buried in a book, turning the pages, she was not looking at him just as she was not listening. Though he should have left and almost did, when she finds the page she sought and turns to grasp a nearby thin knife and moves it against the cover of the back of the second tome, it fills him with a fear so deep the thought of taking the smallest step flew from his mind. From inside the cut she makes she pulls out a small scrap of parchment. 

She pushes the first book against him. “This is High Valyrian.” She pushes the scrap at him too. “Rhaegar translated this.”

Knowing she will not relent, he stares down at the words, irritation rising once more at failing to understand what this has to do with anything. “What is it I am supposed to see?”

She crosses her arms across her chest. “Your sister was the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

Alarmed, he stares at her. What does that matter? Even if that was true, what does that have to do with anything? As if she was reading his mind, she smiles. “Rhaegar was tasked by Aerys to discover the identity of the mystery knight. He did and he crowned your sister because of it.”

She shakes her head while he wonders why any of that matters now they are both dead. Once again pierced with a sharp look fills him with apprehension. 

“You do not see.” 

Though he knows the inevitable conclusion, suspicious, he asks, “What of it?” 

She explains, “When my Aegon was born, Rhaegar told me there needed to be one more. Now read the words again.”

He does not look at the books or the scrap of paper. There is no need. Something heavy settles on top of the pain in his stomach when her face brightens. Without prompting, she adds, “It _could have_ been love or lust, but, what I _know_ is something else entirely. Isn’t that what the words tell you?”

He pushes the scrap of papers aside like Jon had done those weeks ago. Unlike Jon he wants to deny what she implies. He has to. “Why should I trust this?” Some prophesy. That is what she has? No, it is madness. No, it is ravings of an embittered widow. It has to be. Lyanna would never…

“You can trust sums, can you not? I gave Rhaegar two children and could give him no more and there was your sister so young and so vibrant with life. That is what your sister died for. A man so clouded on what he believed his destiny should be he could not predict his own death.” She pauses and considers, “Or perhaps she knew what he was after and went along all the same.”

No! “You lie! Lyanna would never-”

She huffs a laugh, “Go ask your king or go ask your former foster father if they believe her capable of overreaching. As to me lying, I have no reason to lie to you.”

He sneers, “And you take great pleasure in telling truths.” 

Despite his intensions, she takes no offence or at least gives a very good impression of it. “Pleasure is a stranger to me now, Lord Stark. Perhaps you may be right in how your sister was swept away by Rhaegar. Even if she was the first he was drawn to, she would not be the first to be enraptured by him and as you say I know little of your Northern women. What I do know is of the things I have lost, my wits were not among them. It is my responsibility to try and save you from your folly as I could not do with Rhaegar. How do you think the boy will feel when he grows enough to learn of the truth given lies you chose to tell? All I know is that if you take the boy now, you will come to regret it and so will he.” 

As ominous as the words were, and honest, there is only so much he can take. He jerks forward and she only tilted her head, eyes shining. “Go on! Strike me. I dare you. The Lannister boy is about. Perhaps this time will do as he ought and come running.”

Frustrated, haunted, and so tired and even tempted, he nearly growls. “I am not going to strike you.” 

He is not that sort of man. That is the sort of man he fought against. Besides, she might take pleasure in goading him. Worse still, she is right in his giving into his temper means questions he would rather not have to answer. His situation is precarious enough and if it suited her she could easily add to his difficulties. And there was Jon’s safety to consider. Above all, there was that. 

“If I do not give you my nephew, what will you do?”

She takes a deep breath and looks away, but, when she looks at him, she looks resolute. “If he does not live with me, he may not live at all.”

His eyes widen in horror. Is she-

As if preparing for battle, she squares her shoulders. “Do you think Baratheon will be kind if he learns of what we speak? Do you think anyone would let things rest when they learn the extent of your lies? Do you honestly expect anyone to care about another dead dragonspawn when who birthed him did so gleefully and with uncertain purpose corrupted by callousness?”

“Knowing what I know about your husband-“

To his shock, she laughs. “Do you think Robert will feel pity for the child because Rhaegar might have not entirely loved your Lyanna when from the first moment he believed Rhaegar was ravaging her? Will his rage be tempered by Lord Arryn who will suddenly grow to see the child as anything other than something born of those who stretched propriety too far and caused the ruin to more than his house? Knowing the damned prophecy will not change how your sister loved someone or went along with she ought not and countless died for it.”

At that silence reigned and he was breathing heavily. 

When he told them of the tale of finding Lyanna Robert wondered if she cheered when the Kingsguard attacked his party. Jon had been tightlipped and grim, unbending enough to say, “I am sorry for your loss.” ‘Your loss’ not ‘ours’. That they had been more sympathetic to the loss of the lives of the men he took with him only made him want to leave sooner than he could.

He thought watching Lyanna slip from him was the most powerless he could feel. He feels it more because of the grim countenance of the woman before him. “Lord Stark, besides you and I, no one will see this child as anything besides the symbol of reckless selfishness at best or abomination at worst. Even after war ended blood was shed for him. The boy deserves better than to be mired in that history. You may be right that his placement may not be for me to decide, but, my lord, I fear what would happen if you take him with you.”

Only the way she seems to age before his eyes makes him temper the response he desperately yearns to give. “You have already said your piece.” More than that.

Again she looks up at him, dark eyes filled with new sorrow. “Not the entirety.”

What has she not said already? He growls, “Then, what?” 

“You remind me too much of my husband.” His chest tightens again at the haunted mien. In his surprised confusion he almost misses her next words. “Tell me anything these past years sits right with you.” 

He thinks about Brandon and Father coming south to the deaths. He thinks of Jon’s calling the banners. He thinks of the blood he spilled on the battlefield and in a lonely tower at the edge of Westeros. He thinks of Lyanna lying there in a pool of blood with him watching with horror on his face and holding her with his hands while the blood of fallen men drips from them. 

He is choking now. While he wants nothing more than to move he cannot. Most of all he does not want to see sympathy etched into lines of the face before him. 

“Rhaegar spent so much time worrying about what the dead were trying to tell him he let what he ought to do for the living fall by the wayside. I see the same dangerous impulse in you.”

His eyes snap towards the books tucked back into their places and the letters which preceded them. The argument he wants to make, _the one he ought to make_ , halt sharply on his tongue. 

He agreed to take the boy when Lyanna, gasping for air and tears in her eyes, asked him to protect his nephew; the same boy who looks so much like Brandon and Father and will never replace them.

He exhales. Though he wants nothing more, he cannot argue against this woman’s words. Because he must, he tries. “And you do not have it?”

She smiles. “He is not my blood and it is not for the dead that I want him with me.” While he desires to doubt her sincerity, he hates himself for being unable to do so. Damnably, she goes on. “I ask you this for the best of the child.”

This time he was the one shaking his head. “Do you truly expect others not to question this?” 

Something akin to amusement flitting across her features. “Are all you know so inquisitive that if you said you did not wish to discuss something they would force it of you?”

He cannot and will not share her levity. “Even so, why would I choose you? Why would I give you anything? Even your life is not your own.” 

He has seen so many horrors and been its instrument and what shakes him is this woman’s smile. “Oh, you are quite right in that. Even death is beyond my grasp.”

He gasps. Had she-She lets out a soft laugh which sounds all too knowing. “It is because I must live as others demand that I am in the best position to think of how he might do the same. That insight allows remind you it is beyond rare for men north of Dorne to take their bastards home. Tell anyone who asks you cannot take him home with your wife and while you might have been content to leave him in the Eyrie once, Lady Arryn is sister to your lady.” She shakes her head, but, she almost looks sly. “Most will attest making an enemy of your wife’s family is not wise.” 

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. Hoster Tully is a proud man who already demonstrated his disappointment in his kin. “A fool”, that is what he called Brandon and if Jon could not censure himself what hope would he have for his good-father?

The smile she gave him turns into a grimace only for even that expression to disappear completely. She lets out a gentle sigh, “It helps the boy was born in the south and you employ a Dornish nursemaid. I had a number of ladies and retainers with me here and on Dragonstone. Alongside myself enough were kept by Aerys as hostages for Dornish arms, but, not all.” 

What of it? In answer, the woman flatly continues, “If any would think to ask, inform them that the mother is no longer of this world and she and I were of an acquaintance.”

Something in him twists painfully. Was it to be so simple? An evasion more true than false. 

Her reasoning is sound. He shakes his head. He should not be convinced. Coming from Elia Martell…He should not let himself be easily convinced. 

Giving him a knowing look, she ventures, “I doubt many would look too deeply into how my acquaintance with the mother proved to be minimal and less than positive.” 

He feels the jab, but, he refrains from reacting. Not only would it work in her favor, he is too worn out. Is this what resentment and loneliness does? Give a person to think of everything and everything.

“None of that explains why I would leave him with you and not with Robert.”

The way she laughs disturbs him. “I doubt his future queen desires your Robert’s attention be focused on his friend’s bastard rather than the true-born children she would give him. Even if he was capable of such a thing I daresay you would find Robert’s attention undesirable.”

A shiver runs through him at the remotest prospect of Robert’s closer inspection, but, that was not the only thing he questions. “What future queen?”

That Robert would marry comes as no surprise; after all a king needs a queen. With Jon’s and Robert’s reactions to Lyanna’s letters being what they were he should have known the question of Robert’s marriage would have occurred sooner rather than later. Desiring to get away from Robert had been his only intension at the time it had not occurred to him to question what Robert’s plans were.

Elia Martell smiles impishly. “Cersei Lannister.” She says it as if the ‘of course’ was unnecessary. 

Bile rises in his throat.

Adding to his anguish, she almost appears amused. “Prisoners, Lord Stark, are constantly being watched. I cannot even receive letters from my brothers without them passing through hands at the Red Keep. Even your presence in this manse will not go unmarked upon. They might take your leaving the child in this city as a sign you wish for some sort of reconciliation. Even if having a part of you near is not good enough to soothe their souls, remind your friend, the king, and that foster-father of yours that if I am too busy with the child I am too busy to be doing much anything else. Beyond that, I doubt many others would care where you keep your ‘bastard’.”

She takes a deep breath again. “What is one more bastard tucked in a corner only few in King’s Landing bother to seek out? If it is my solemn oath to protect him you need, I will swear it, but, I cannot protect him from where I cannot go.”

He cannot help but ask, “How can I trust you? Your own children-”

He freezes at her stricken expression. Even as she seems to shrink in sorrow, she takes a brittle sounding breath. “The chance to live a life free from the legacy of his forbearers and the narrow paths your choices can take is more than my children ever had nor ever will. That is reason enough for me to want to help him.”

He narrows his eyes. “That is not the only reason.”

To his surprise, she nods agreeably. “No.” 

His impatience rises again. “Well?”

She steps close and it takes everything in him not to flinch back. “In truth, part of me delights in the prospect of a dragon prospering right under Baratheon’s nose.” 

He exhales sharply. “This manse is partly paid for by the dowry presented to your king for the hand of Lannister’s daughter. He is responsible for the deaths of my children. It is only right that he be responsible for the upkeep of another who shares their blood.”

He recoils the look in her eyes and the venom in her voice. But, then her face falls and the chill he felt before returns at the grief radiating off of her. “But, that is nothing compared to what I truly want.”

Fearing the answer, he asks, “What is it that you want?”

She sways slightly as though this was becoming too much for her. But, when she speaks again, her voice is firm. “Perhaps it is selfish of me, but, I want to be able to soothe the cries of a living child once again.” His breath catches when her eyes moisten. “When I hear the laughter of children I want to be able to hear it and see it. I know this will be my last chance for it.” 

Before he can think to spring away, she takes hold of his sleeve and looks up at him, the yearning so pure it hurts to look at her. “Please leave him here with me.”

The door slams open.

His eyes gladly fly towards the rather large youth dressed in light armor holding a sword who barges in, barking at someone behind him. “Worry about your own footwork!”

Shaken, he barely stops himself from flinching at the way the glower directed at him makes the half burned face uglier. The next snarl, perplexedly softer in tone, is fixed on the woman. “Who is he?”

Following this strange person in, Jaime Lannister spares him his own glare. Though he knows why the man broke his vows it is impossible to stifle the flare disgust at the sight of the white the man does not deserve to wear. It flares hotter when Lannister smirks. The drawl begins, “This, Clegane-” 

Horrified, he turns sharply towards the woman who remains silent since the interruption. A Clegane? Why she does she have nothing but bitterness for him when she graces a Clegane an amiable expression. Lannister continues, sneering, “Is Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.” 

“What’s he doing here?” is the next question from the younger man. 

Elia Martell’s expression, no longer bewilderingly affable, sharpens in rebuke. “Sandor, do not be so impolite. Lord Stark is a guest. He and I had a few matters to discuss.”

‘Matters to discuss?’ Even when he could not dare disclose any of what they discussed how is she capable to reduce what happened here to that?

“Such as?” This question was posed by the Kingslayer who looks at him suspiciously. 

“I offered to take his son.” The Lannister flinches in surprise, yet it is not he who interjects.

“Why?”

Now, Lannister barks his disapproval at the perplexedly wounded-looking, younger man. “You’ve got lessons, Clegane, get on with them. If it’s decided between them, that’s it, then. It is none of your concern.” 

He almost yells out that nothing was decided, but, the princess clears her throat as the youth glares at the white-clad man. “Perhaps that is enough swordplay for today, but, Sandor, you have yet to read your histories. Go on, I will come to join you later.”

“I don’t need more stupid lessons.” Again, it sounded like a snarl, but, there was something soft about it.

“Sandor, you are the head of your house.” He turns sharply towards the boy. What happened to-

“My brother nev-”

His eyes widen when the woman interrupts delicately, “And that is the example you wish to follow?”

The Lannister’s face grows ashen. 

Now red-faced, the young man steps back from the woman as if she slapped him. “ _Fine_ , I’ll go read your stupid books.” Gruffness all but gone, now there was something apologetic in the young man’s voice. 

“Thank you, Sandor.”

Watching the dainty woman seeming to comfort the harsh youth might have been comical, but, he seems unable make sound pass through his throat.

When the boy stalks out, Lannister turns to the woman. “Are you alright?” 

She smiles reassuringly at the worried looking false knight. “It’s alright, Ser.”

To his shock, the knight does not argue. The only thing the man does is step closer to the woman with a weary look. “Are you truly considering this?” Lannister lowers his voice, “Would it please you?”

She smiles at the man who grows paler. “I think I should like to hear the sounds of young children once again.”

Seeing the man’s shaky nod, he finally finds words. “I have not agreed to this proposal.”

Lannister glares at him only for it to turn into a soft look when directed at the woman who smiles all too easily now. “Of course, it is not an easy decision and there are other considerations.”

He grimaces knowing the considerations she takes into account are not his.

Silence remains thick until, Lannister makes an admission. “Stark’s wanted back at the Keep. I will take him.” In a softer tone, to the lady, he adds, “Perhaps you should rest. Clegane is being rougher than usual.”

His indignation flares again. The dirty look the man sends him tells Clegane is not the only one he believes to have been rough.

The woman purses her lips at that, but, she nods and Lannister almost sags in relief. With that, she turns to him once again. “Lord Stark, I have kept you long enough, but, please think about what we spoke.”

He does not answer. He does not need to. With all this said and showed, does he have any other choice?

* * *

Though he hoped nothing would be said while they marched their horses towards the Red Keep, even his gods seem to be against him. 

“You are thinking of leaving your boy here?”

At this sign of curiosity he curses the woman. Of course, people would be inquisitive and he needs no attention from Lannisters.

He had hoped if he admitted Jon was his then that would avoid many of his problems. Now, he is unsure of how to proceed and all he can grasp at is what Elia Martell says. Damn her. 

He tries to swallow his temper, but, knowing there are only few answers he could give and where he learned them from does little to allow it. “I am slated to go to Riverrun. It might not be wise to take him presently.”

Disgustingly, the Lannister snorts. “True enough.” 

The snort becomes an easy grin. “It is a good thing your good-father is not in Riverrun.” 

While he wonders where Lord Tully might be if not in Riverrun, he stiffens as Lannister tilts his head. “Your wife is though. If she is the same as I remember, I suppose that’s more than enough.”

Outrage at the way this man speak of Catelyn, shock wins out. “You met her?”

Smirking slightly, Lannister nods. “Some years ago.”

“She is one to speak her mind?” 

He does not know why he is asking this man, but, he does all the same. Despite his words earlier today, after only having a fortnight with her, though she had been kind, he does not know Catelyn as Brandon did. 

As though overjoyed by his predicament, Lannister sneers again. “Lady Catelyn acted as chatelaine of Riverrun for some years. That sort of woman does not take to slights so easily.” 

His heart sinks further. Some part of him knew even if he had not wanted to admit this. He does not know what prompts him to ask, but, hesitantly, and with great disgust with himself, he does. “If it came to it, do you think the princess would be good to my son?”

While he hesitates at mentioning the horrid prospect, he exhales in relief when the word “son” comes out as it should. 

“You’ll find few better suited to the task. At six and ten I saw her coo at ugly babies. Now, well, it would do her mind some peace to have a child about.” 

While there is no sneer on the man’s face now, rather than relief he feels the opposite. 

While his heart twists the faraway look in the man’s eyes is too apparent. “I was not part of the household on Dragonstone, but, when she and the children were brought to the Red Keep it was easy to see she loved her children. She loved being a mother.” 

Coming back to himself, the man shrugs. “She even accepts Clegane.” 

Evidently, not expecting a response, the man considers his last statement. “Not that she had a choice, but, she welcomed him all the same.”

“What happened to the other one?” 

Lannister lets out a pained laugh. “While you were off killing the finest of knights at the edge of Westeros, when Arryn demanded Clegane and Lorch, my father acquiesced.”

This must have been ‘the other part of the dowry’, the princess spoke of. It is a bitter thing realizing his former foster-father’s pragmatism. Was this how one spared a blight staining upon their own vaunted honor? 

Pushing that thought aside, he notes this man’s furious look. Knowing it has little to do with the fate of Lannister bannerman does little change his lack of desire to explain or apologize for his role the deaths of this man’s former ‘brother’s’ when those men remained loyal to their oaths and this one did not.

What he desires less is to engage the man in any sort of battle. Instead, he demands to know about what happened to the two Lannister bannermen. 

“Lorch was sent to the Wall.” 

He grimaces in distaste. The Night’s Watch. He can still hear the woman’s voice asking if it was still a proud order, is one day it would be proud enough for Jon...Many Targaryen loyalists were sent to the Wall of late, but, that they were joined by the butcher of babes who do-did share his nephew’s blood… Thickly, he manages, “And Clegane?”

“He was to be sent to the Wall after his gelding. He caught an illness never recovered from.”

Lannister shakes his head. Surprisingly, there was no sympathy in it. Lannister quickly changes the subject. “You are considering her offer.”

He stiffens. “You enjoy the idea.”

That alone was reason enough to deny the entire plot. Except, the man’s pallor becomes grey. “Hardly, but, it might do her some good. I will not be there forever-“

“What?”

The man looks at him as though he said something witless. “My sister is to be queen.”

Knowing as he did now about Robert’s anger he doubted Lannister would get what he desired, but, he keeps silent. It matters not to him where this man goes.

Thankfully, the man took his silence as agreement. Lannister continues, “Despite his lineage Clegane isn’t too bad a lad, but, he…” The man falters and grimaces. “Clegane was deliberately chosen to be a member of the household because he serves as a reminder of the man who ravaged her and killed her son.” The man glares at him as though he was responsible for this entire farce. 

When he glowers right back, Lannister takes a deep breath and finishes, “I can hardly blame her for wanting to lavish her attention on a child.”

It sounded as though he was counseling indulging this endeavor. It also sounded like the man was justifying this path to himself. 

“Why do you want her to have a child?”

Even as clouds continue to gather in the man’s eyes, Lannister smiles wryly. “I don’t.”

Nonplussed, he stares. The man did not object when the woman’s idea was brought to his attention and now he claims he does not want this?

“What do you want, then?” he asks of yet another person he never once believed he would have cause to. 

Lannister’s lips twitch into a grim sneer. “They know why I did it and still they call me Kingslayer.”

The answer aggravates him. Was this the man’s game? Deflection. “You killed the king.”

Lannister laughs; the puff of sound is bitter and hollow. The noise only adds to his frustration. “And you, Arryn, and Baratheon came to parley with him, did you?”

He grips the reigns in his hands tighter. By what right does he speak? His father was killed. His brother was killed. More than one friend was killed. Many more died on the battlefields while this one stayed safe behind walls. Perhaps the justice they were after meant the king would have died, but, what had this man, this _oathbreaker_ , suffered that he mock him now? “You swore an oath.”

The other man sneers. “And vassals owe their kings nothing?” 

Incensed, he almost lunges at the man. He barely manages to control himself. 

He had not sworn Aerys anything. Father, as the Lord of Winterfell, had and the Targaryen king broke the accord brokered by his father’s oath by killing him and Brandon. That is the only reason he is the Lord of Winterfell now. Why does this man tell him things they both already know? Why does this man think that will absolve him of his failures?

“You were sworn to protect him.”

A retort comes to him from gritted teeth. “I did not ask to be a Kingsguard. He ordered it and you are being deliberately being obtuse if you think Aerys means anything now.”

“You chose to discuss Aerys.” Why would he want to discuss that man? Why would he think kindly of the man who killed his family?

Lannister smiles derisively. “When I was impressed into becoming Kingsguard, he was not the only one I was sworn to protect.”

Anger still simmering, he demands, “What of it?”

The man releases one hand from his own set of reigns and runs it long the edge of his white cloak. The man smiles sweetly as the mockery of the action burns. “If I was sworn, then my vows extended to were the whole of the king’s family.”

His irritation flares hot. He wants the man to say what he means to say and to remain silent.

The man answers his unspoken demand, his voice light. “Before he went off to fight at the Trident I swore a vow to Prince Rhaegar.”

Filled with suspicion, his dread grows. “What vow?”

Lannister turns away to stare at the path before them. Of all the vile things this man spits, _now_ he chooses to be reserved? “Before he went off to war, he demanded I swear to keep his wife and children safe.”

He winces and closes his eyes and in the end there is no respite. In his mind’s eye he sees the secret the dusty tomes Rhaegar’s wife presented him with. Try as he might avoiding thinking of it, even this gives credence to her truths. Anguish fills him thinking of what other words of hers he might have to yield to.

Lannister turns to him again, the defeated expression vanishes quickly from this man’s. The horror he feels firmly remains.

“When I killed Aerys I did it for everyone, including Prince Rhaegar’s wife and the children. I had not known I was sentencing them to die.” 

The man shakes his head. “I cannot do anything for the children now and the one thing the wife wants from me I cannot do.”

Loathing fills the face before him. It sickens him because he understands the expression is directed inwards.

Then, the face before him hardens into a mask. “I care not one whit about your boy, but, if having your bastard in the household means she will stop asking me to help her die to I will welcome tens of thousands of yours and anyone else’s.”

With that Lannister turned away from him and only spoke when at the gate leading to the courtyard of the Red Keep to yell up to the men guarding it. 

Lurching forward, once more he thinks of Elia Martell in that cold manse gazing up at him with her wet, dark eyes only for the sight to turn into a vision of Ashara Dayne, imagining her standing at the precipice she jumped from after closing her haunting violet ones. Finally, he thinks of Lyanna, begging him to forgive him and he hears her pleas to protect her son before closing the grey eyes she left to her son. 

Even when he blinks the thoughts back he is too worn to say more. 

He finds even less to say when once in the courtyard and there he sees the all too familiar image of silver trout on a blue and red striped field stitched on the livery of men who clearly recently arrived.

* * *

“Howland!”

At second yell the Crannogman startles from the trance-like stare focused at Jon. 

While the man is small of frame, the eyes now turned to him are sharp. “Ah, Lord Stark, you returned. Good.”

Good? Can anything be called that when his good-father was to be here on the morrow and he only just came back from speaking with Ser Barristan?

_With a curt nod towards him Barristan turns to Lannister with a brisk, “Thank you, you may return to the manse.”_

_With a swift bow and a sharp to Ser Barristan and a “Yes, Lord Commander” he is finally free of Lannister and his knowing stares._

_“How is she?”_

_Despite the frustration filling him about having to talk more about her when he wants to do anything else, he is startled into curiosity. “Have you not been to the princess?”_

_Ser Barristan’s face falls. “She only saw me once since she was moved. I do not have it in me to force my company upon her when she does not desire it.” With noticeably false cheer, nodding to the closed door, he adds, “She has the lad for company.”_

_It is more than odd to hear the bitterness in the Lord Commander’s tone when he recalls the man himself championed this idea of Lannister guarding the Dornishwoman._

_Though it is on the tip of his tongue to reveal the change in responsibility Lannister expects he stifles the urge. He wants little to do with the goings on in the Red Keep and the best way to ensure it is to remain silent. It is horrid enough the goings on at the manse feature more heavily in his thoughts than he ever expected or desired._

_Irritatingly, the Lord Commander continues, “You were at the manse for some time.”_

_Oh, he knows. He did spend too much time; long enough to split his world into a greater number of shards and long enough to realize it could splinter even more. “She and I had certain things to discuss.”_

_“Ashara Dayne.” The name sounded as reverent as it did furious._

_Vowing not to discuss anything more than he needs to, he stiffly replies, “Among other matters, yes.”_

The rest of their thankfully short meeting fared little better. 

Feeling that rush of cold once more, he rushes towards his friend whose gaze snapped back to Jon without another word. “Is all well, Howland?” 

For a while nothing is said. Then, he sees Howland presses his lips together before, “Well enough.” 

He is not blind. Everything about the grim expression, the shallow puffs of breath he was taking, and the uneasy glances Howland directs at Jon tells him ‘well enough’ is a lie. 

“Howland, what is wrong?” That unpleasant cold feeling returns. “Is it Jon?” At the stubborn silence he grows frantic, “Damn it, Howland, tell me what’s wrong!”

Rather than answer Howland gazes at him, sadness clearer to him than anything else. “Fate is such an ugly thing.”

He shivers as Howland stands. Has he not thought about fate enough? “What?”

“Can you not feel it, Eddard?” That horrible chill grows fiercer. 

“What am I supposed to feel?”

“Death, Eddard. Death.” At this, he grows more terrified.

“Whose?” A shock of pure fear runs through him. No! He nearly runs to the cot. He cannot-

Looking down, he lets out a whoosh of air. Jon was asleep, peacefully. He had not even stirred. 

His eyes back to Howland whose face is grey. He growls. “He’s fine, Howland. Look at him he’s fine.”

Howland takes another shuddery breath as the smaller man takes another sharp glance at the boy. Grey tinges green now. “For now, yes. His fate is yet unclear.”

He wants to shake Howland. “‘For now?’ What in the name of the gods you mean ‘for now’? What are you playing at, Reed? Tell me this instant!”

A mournful countenance descends over the Crannogman’s face. “I mean that it depends on you. That is why I say Fate is cruel.”

Again this damn talk of fate. He has grown sick of it. Even as he remembers Howland at that damnable tower and old Nan’s tales of the Children of the Forest he pushes the memories down. 

Angry at himself for falling prey to his fancies, he moves closer to Howland. Never as tall as Brandon, he was towering over the man he is mere inches away from. But, Howland is not cowed and that alone gives him pause. “What depends on me?”

He is met with a grave silence. Before he knows it, his hands are gripping Howland’s shoulders, pulling him away from Jon. “Damn you, Howland. Tell me what you mean?”

Howland’s eyes are glistening now. “Death pays for life.”

No. He shakes his head wildly. Try as he might, he just cannot fight the dread in him. “No!”

Howland breathes deep. “I am sorry, Eddard.”

No. He-“It is paid for already. Lyanna paid already.” He knows he pleads, but, what else there for him to do? His father was dead. His brother was dead. His sister was dead. He will not lose her son; not to fate or prophecy, whatever it is called.

Howland shakes his head. “Mayhap, but, hers is not the one I mean.”

The horror in him grows as something in him twists. “Then, whose?”

Howland shakes his head ruefully. “The Dragon’s bride.”

Dragon’s bride? Who-He flinches so fiercely he has to take a step back. Elia Martell again. Of anyone, why was it her? Why is it always her? Hasn't his family paid enough because of her husband's insult to her that this- “No. She has nothing to do with this.” _No. >_

Howland shakes his head. “Oh, Eddard. She has everything to do with it.”

He yells, “They are nothing to one another!” Now, he will ensure it. He _has_ to ensure it.

Howland’s face crumbles. “Their futures are tied. I cannot explain how and I wish it not, but, I saw it. I can curse this thrice damned knowledge until I breathe my last, but, there is nothing I can do about what I saw. I am so sorry.” 

Sorry? That is all he can say? He gripes Howland’s shoulders tighter. “What did you see?” 

A shudder runs through Howland. “One’s future may change as easily as a wind’s might. What that means for the boy, I cannot say. That is what I meant when I said it depends on you.” 

_“I mean to come with you to find Lady Lyanna, Lord Eddard.”_

_Looking at the shorter man, he shakes his head. “Howland, I cannot let you-”_

_Howland shakes his own. “It needs doing.”_

_“Why?”_

_“I fear what may happen if I do not.”_

And now he lives as Arthur Dayne does not.

Through gritted teeth, he repeats, “What did you see?"

“I saw their deaths. Both. Either. These damnable sights…”

This time he was the one to shudder, but, Howland was not done. Damn it all, Howland was not done. “I saw hers first. He was there. He was a man grown cradling her in his arms whiles she smiled at him through red-stained teeth.” 

He closes his eyes and all he sees is her sharp white smile, but, he does not want to talk about her. He does not need to talk about her. More urgently, he presses, “And his? You said you saw his too.” Will it be real? His head spins and he tries to suppress the bile threatening to come up.

He could not tell who shivers more as Howland’s face crumbles further. “I saw cold and dark. He was so very cold and alone under a looming stone shadow. So much blood spilt surrounds him it runs deep into the snow.”

He hears a thought in her voice. _What sort of life does a Snow lead?_

He shakes his head. None of this is true. It cannot be. Howland must have gone mad. “No. It cannot be. You are mistaken. No! You are lying.” Howland has to be.

Howland’s tears fell freely now even when he tries to blink back his own. “Gods, I wish I was.” 

“What do I need to do?” If there is anything in his power he will prevent this. He needs to. _He promised._

He could barely hear Howland over the assault of memories both long ago and recent. “Her death or his. You need to choose and choose quickly.”

He hears a cry. He flings himself away from Howland to peer down at grey eyes so like his.

Once more a chill so deep envelopes him. He forces himself to turn away from those familiar eyes.

 _A choice?_ He breathes deep, the words just said screaming in his mind. For him, there was none. He’d been a fool to think otherwise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Author runs off into the distance, cackling*


	4. Cersei, 283 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing and that all things recognizable are property of G.R.R. Martin, David Benioff, D.B. Weiss, & company, & the asoiaf wiki.
> 
> Warning: though this is ASOIAF-based fic, I am stating upfront: this chapter contains violence, minor incest, dub-con, and addresses subjects which may cause unease on the part of the reader.

She swirls the contents of the goblet offered her upon her entry into this place. At least the wine is good. But, not good enough for this. Every moment she waits her mood sours further.

Where is Jaime? 

She grimaced. She had been told that he was here. If that was true, where is he? Why did she have to come here to see him at all? She is his sister. She barely stepped foot in King’s Landing and he keeps rushing away from her? When they are finally able to be together, why is he forcing her to seek him out? How much longer must she wait for him? Why was he making her wait? She is going to be queen. It is just as they dreamed when they had been children. Why is she left staring at her cup of Arbor Gold?

Too distracted with thoughts of Jaime, she had not minded how the girl who let her in took the bottle away as she fled from the room. After all, she was not intending to remain long. But, now that she is forced to wait, she begins to think of more than her brother’s whereabouts. If Martell was supposed to be a prisoner, why does Martell have good wine and why does she live in comfortable manse? 

The creak at the door and the whisper of cloth tells her she is closer to her quarry. “Lady Cersei. I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

Martell was wearing no jewelry and a plain gown and looks sicklier than she had seemed at Harrenhal. Cersei always knew Martell was going to be disappointing. But, it is not disappointment she starts to feel; it is rage.

Martell owes her more than one apology and more than just for keeping her waiting. This woman, draped in Targaryen black, stole Rhaegar from her. She stole the life meant for her. If she married Rhaegar, she would have never disappointed him. If she married Rhaegar he would not have died. If she married Rhaegar, she would have her Rhaegar and her Jaime would be with her now.

Oh, but, she knew this world was a cruel one. How can it not be when her dear, glorious Rhaegar is dead and now she must go through others like this to see her own brother? 

Martell explains, “Jon would not settle today.”

Despite herself, she asks, “Who?”

Martell’s lips pinch together before she answers. “Lord Stark’s son.”

Surprised, she puts her goblet down on the low table off to the side. “Lord Stark’s son? Here? Is his name not ‘Robert’ for our king?”

Confused as this is starting to make her she barely keeps the disgust from her voice. She hates Robert almost as she hates this woman. After all, though by different means, they both took her Rhaegar from her. 

Martell murmurs, “Lord Stark’s eldest son is called ‘Robb’.” Martell blushes. Embarrassment is a good look on the woman, she thinks. Martell continues, “This natural son is named for our Hand.”

She sneers. Ah, yes, the oh so honorable Ned Stark who’d wanted to have Jaime sent away to that awful Wall as though he was a criminal, but, not so honorable enough to keep his britches closed. She shakes her head. She has more important reasons to be here than to discuss Ned Stark or his bastard. “Where is my brother?”

“Ser Jaime?”

She sneers. Obviously, she means Jaime. Why would she be bothered about Tyrion? He is where he should be; tucked away at Casterly Rock, far from where anyone of importance would see him. “Yes. I was told he was here.”

Settling across from her, Martell gives her a demure smile. It increases her ire. She must go through Martell to get to Jaime? Why did Jaime bleat about attending to her if he was not here at all? 

“He took young Clegane to the armorers. They should be back shortly.”

Jaime would rather be at the armorers than be with her? Shoving down her hurt and irritation, she thinks of a much better thing. Smiling in earnest now, she settles back. “That is good. It gives us time to talk. I would require something of you.”

Finally, Martell startles. “Of me?”

She dreamed of being queen since Lannisport. This is one of the few things which could make having to marry Robert better. “You are to attend my wedding and the coronation as my guest.”

She smirks at the way Martell averts her eyes. At least Jaime making her wait is good for something. She does not want Martell there for herself. To know Martell sees her get what she never had and never would is enough. It would have to be.

“I am afraid I cannot oblige you.”

Outraged, she demands, “You refuse me? I am to be queen.”

“Is my presence the king’s will?” A bold question when Martell is no one now as her father had said. 

She longs to grasp at the haughty woman’s hair and force her to her knees in front of her betters and make her to choke out those sweet words ‘Yes, my queen’. Instead, she says, “Princess, it is mine. After all, this is for the day of my wedding. I would have you say, ‘Yes’.”

Sighing, the woman has the audacity to look apologetic. “Unless the king commands it, I cannot oblige you.”

Suspicious, she demands. “Why not?”

Martell flushes and looks down again. “As loathe am I to deny a bride, it is also the king’s wedding. I am forbidden.”

Eyes narrowed, she accuses, “Forbidden?”

Martell’s lips purse. “Even for a momentous occasion I cannot oblige you. I am barred from the king’s presence. Even if the king allows it, and I know better than to think he would, I am forbidden from leaving the grounds of this manse except to worship at the Sept and if I am called to the Red Keep at the behest of the Hand or the Lord Commander.”

Now stooped shoulders, Martell gives her an apologetic glance. This wretch surely must be lying to save face, but, surely this can be easily proven? She reaches out and lifts Martell’s chin up forcing the woman to look at her. “How long?”

Martell stares at her. Puzzlement. It was as if her lack of knowledge was a shock. Did everyone besides her know about this? “When I was installed here.”

Her irritation flares again. Even if this is true, why had no one see fit to tell her? If this is being kept from her, what else is? Jaime would tell her. Her Jaime would have told her…but, he is not here.

To hide her discomfort, she sneers. “You meekly accepted it? Are you that weak?”

Martell frowns at her. “There is no weakness in accepting the unchangeable.” 

She snorts. Is that what she tells herself? “What else would you call it besides weakness?”

“My lady, Cersei, if I may call you that…” Uncaring for this paltry attempt at nicety she nods briskly. “What weakness is it to refrain from expending energy for something unwanted?”

What was this woman going on about?

“You do not understand.”

She bares her teeth at Martell who shrugs. “When I came to King’s Landing I learned that we all serve at the king’s pleasure. This king’s is in forgetting that I am here. I do not fault him for it. I do not argue against it.” She ends with a breathless, garbled laugh.

“Then you are weak.”

Another shrug. That is what she gets. Where is the hurt? Where is her ire? Where is the rage she wants to see? “How dare you?”

Surprise, this time. “What do you desire from me?”

“Don’t you think?”

Martell looks down for a moment. When she looks up again, she is greeted with a resigned expression. “Of many things. What does it matter?” 

“I suppose you are right. What could you argue against? You are more useless now than ever.”

She receives that puzzled expression again. At least this time, she wanted it. “Oh?”

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” She laughs. “Of course, not. Why would you be? Only someone worthy-” 

Martell frowns. “What am I supposed to be worthy of?”

She sneers. “That is just it, you are not.”

Martell gives her a hurt look. “How do you mean?”

“If Rhaegar married me instead of you he would have not looked once at Lyanna Stark.”

Glee begins to coil in her when Martell’s face purples. But, then, the Martell bitch just laughs. 

Too shocked, she is quiet when Martell, with hand covering her mouth, turns away. When Martell looks at her again, she starts, “My dear-”

At the snicker, she snaps, “I am not ‘your dear’ anything.”

Lips twitching, Martell shakes her head. “‘Dear’ is better than fool.” 

“How dare-” 

The woman gives her a pitying look. “I dare because it unbecoming for you to sound like a love-struck child when you should know better.”

Before she realizes it, she stands, towered over Martell’s sitting form. “You soiled bitch!”

The damned woman only tilts her head and looks her up and down. Martell huffs. “Call me whatever you like, but, dear girl, if I did not laugh at you, I would cry for you.”

She shakes with fury. How dare she! “Cry for me? Save your tears for yourself.”

Martell’s smirk widens. It is ugly just like the rest of her. “Most of mine dried up. I do not want to cry for you, but, this path you are on makes me think-” 

Anger flares in her. This weak thing was lecturing her as if she had the right. Her fury only increases when Martell continues. “You see yourself a well-bred, pretty, wealthy man’s daughter who is to be queen. I won’t disagree; however, I doubt any of that will be of any use to you. You will ruin yourself if you keep up this foolishness.”

What is this woman babbling about? “Ruin myself? How?”

Eyes now hard, Martell gives her head a rough shake. “You should be sharper than this. Rhaegar passed you up twice and here-”

She stands straight up. Of all the ugly lies. “You are lying.”

Martell throws her head back. Martell’s laughter echoes. The sound engulfs her. “In passing, Rhaegar told me once of how your father asked his for a match between you both. Rhaegar chose to marry me.” 

She hates this woman for the casual way Martell throws about Rhaegar’s name and how he had been forced to marry her when Martell had been unfit clean his boots.

She draws herself to her full height. This time, she is the one laughing. “Aerys chose you. Not Rhaegar.”

Martell snorts before leaning forward, grinning slightly. “Aerys did not want Rhaegar to set up our residence on Dragonstone. He did. Aerys did not want him to disappear for months. He did. Aerys did not want him to keep silent about where he kept Lyanna Stark and three of his Kingsguard. He still did it. If he truly wanted you, why would Aerys’ displeasure stop him?”

“Tell yourself whatever you like!” Ugly lies from an ugly, deluded woman. That’s what this is.

Martell shakes her head softly, clucking her tongue. It is as if Martell felt pity for her. “If he wanted your hand he would have had it.”

“He did not pass me up twice.”

Now that ugly dark face smiles sympathetically. She clenches her fist. The sneering died and, yet, her anger coils upward and fierce. However, Martell does not seem to notice. “It is obvious to anyone with a slight amount of sense. It is good to know you have some measure of steel in you, but, steel is nothing when you should be better than this. He married me. Then, he chose to go gallivanting off with Lyanna Stark. When you could have been persuaded, he did not choose you either time. Cry all you like of how much you loved him or how much better you are, but, to him you barely merited a thought. Only a fool would hold onto that.” 

Shocked at herself settles in as she stares at her stinging hand.

“Hit me again.”

Her eyes fly towards that sharp bark. She can see the imprint of her hand on Martell’s face. As joyful she should feel, the other woman laughs disdainfully. She does not understand it. She understands less when Martell clucks at her disappointedly. “Hit me again.”

Martell sniffs. “Hit me as many times as you like, but, dear girl, no matter how many times you hit me it will not change what I say.”

Gods, did she wants to strike her again, but, the first time had been a mistake. She should have never lost her control. The woman must be mad. Yes, that is it. Seeing that cheek redden further, she thinks that while she does not regret it, she reminds herself it was pointless to argue against a madwoman.

She draws herself up. “Why should I listen to anything you have to say? You have nothing.”

“That is right. I have nothing.” Martell whispers flatly. “But, I had more than nothing once. I had a good life. A husband. Beautiful children. I nearly had a crown too. It did not take long for my dreams to shatter. Think, girl, and think hard. Think for your own future. You consider yourself as near divine. Listen well if my fate or worse is not what you desire. You covet what I had; go look for it now. Stop chasing ghosts and walking roads leading nowhere. You are already at a disadvantage.”

She shivers. What disadvantage? Her head spins and her thoughts fly. What is Martell saying? And why does she sound like that horrible crone whose words haunted her dreams as a child? 

No. She will not think of that. Martell is bitter and mad; that is all. That is all it must be. Pushing down her dread, she sneers, “What do you know of my future? You dare talk to me about other people’s futures when you live on other’s sufferance?”

“I can taste pride and surety in you as deeply as I still can the sting of that slap.” Martell’s lips hint at a smile. “I know you are going to be a queen.”

“Yes, that’s right. I am going to be a queen.” Her lips curl upward. Like you never were. Like you never deserved to be.

Martell’s smile is now gone. She looks haunted without it. “If you do not heed my advice, I doubt you will enjoy much of anything. Of course, you might not enjoy what you have now.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Again, Martell shakes her head sadly as she extends her hand as if asking her to take it. 

When she recoils, Martell gives her a hurt look. “Since you claim to love my husband so much, what joy can you get from marrying the man who killed him?”

She almost slaps this damned woman again. The only reason she refrains is due to the obvious attempt at baiting. No matter what she is told, she will not lose her temper again. Throwing her head back, she sneers. “Weren’t you just saying I should not think of Rhaegar? A victorious, warrior king like Robert will do just as well.”

It is a lie, but, she could do nothing about Rhaegar marrying Martell and doing nothing about marrying Robert, she will not let Martell have this too.

Martell clucks softly. “Victory in battle might be the only thing worthwhile about Robert. But, that is not what I mean. A girl grows up dreaming of having a content life made richer by the love of the best of men. Perhaps I am cruel to say this to a woman, an eager bride no less, but, it was to my detriment I, too, believed in pretty lies people tell their daughters. Though I wish I think wrongly, I am certain what Robert gives you will be of little worth.” 

Why is she certain? How could she be? “Why would anyone with sense believe you? Look at yourself. You are just a bitter crone.”

Martell tuts at her. “And you are a dreamer, aren’t you? You poor thing. Dreams only get people killed. Foolish girl, why do you refuse to see what I tell you?”

She laughs in Martell’s face. “My fate will not be yours. I am not you.”

Martell cranes her neck forward. “It makes no difference. Your dear warrior king wanted to marry one person. He knows she betrayed him for the same man you claim to love. You will have Robert’s name and his children. If that is all you require to be content I…well. I am more than certain no matter how much you try, if he knows how to give it to you, his love, his regard, or anything you truly want or deserve will be denied you.”

_If he knows how…_

_Six and ten for him… three children for her._

“I will make him love me.” Even if I will never love him, she vows to herself she will make Robert love her. She will make all love her like they never loved Martell.

Martell turns away, but, she had not missed the newest pitying look. “I wish you luck then. I suppose you owe it to Jon Arryn and your father to try.” 

Unnerved and suspicious, she narrows her eyes. “My father?”

Martell clucks at her again. “It is your duty to mind your father’s investments not going to waste.”

Her face curdles. “My father invest-?” 

The ugly little woman waves a negligent hand around. “Who do you think pays for this manse or that Clegane’s lordling’s supplies? Not Robert. Your father was always desperate to make you a queen. Your father gifted Robert with corpses of Rhaegar’s children. It takes more than that to win a crown and more than that to keep it.” 

“Do you not get tired of trying to stomp on the joys of others by furthering your lies?” 

Martell sighs heavily. “Even your precious warrior king knows I am no liar.” Martell shakes her head. “That Keep and the men in it will take your beauty, intelligence, and your youth. They will use you up and give you humiliation and loneliness in return. Give it time, child, and you will learn what I already know.”

No. She will never let that happen. “My life will not be yours. Those men you speak of are different from the ones you knew.”

Martell gives her another pitying look. “They are all the same. But, I suppose I should not be so harsh. If not for the fact that our mothers were friends, as a woman I owe you better.”

She sneers. “As a woman…”

Martell sighs. “For Ser Jaime, then.”

She frowns. “My brother?”

Martell mirrors her expression. “Your brother is too good to me to add to his burdens and you seem intent to add to them.”

She startles. Why was Martell talking as though Jaime was in danger? “‘What burdens?”

Martell waves a hand dismissively, but, there is no masking the tension in her shoulders. “Think nothing of it. You have your own concerns.” What is Jaime involved in?

She finds herself leaning over Martell, “Tell me about my brother.”

Martell looks away. “I have already said too much.” 

She reaches out and grips Martell’s hand. “No, you do not get to turn away. You love talking too much to stop now. Is he in danger?”

Again, that cluck of disappointment. Why does she only warrant that? She is Cersei Lannister. She is going to be queen. She deserves better.

She snarls. “Tell. Me. What. Ails. My. Brother.”

Martell shakes her head. “I cannot tell you what I am not supposed to know.”

She accuses, “You do know.”

“Your brother is a fine knight.”

She digs her nails into the hand in hers. “I know that already. Stop stalling.”

Martell looks at their entwined hands, but, only says, “It is a pity others, including your warrior king, do not think so.” 

What of it? “He is a hero. He saved the city.”

Martell smiles sadly. “The city loves him for now; the city all of us are not beholden to. That is why, dear Cersei, there are no best men. There never are. You seem content to ignore-”

She lets Martell’s hand go. “Stop speaking in circles.”

Looking pained, Martell closes her yes. “I fear for him. Though Stark wanted your brother at the Wall, this city’s new king and his Hand were set on killing him.”

Fear grips her. No! No, not her Jaime. Martell glances about before stepping closer. Firm enough not to recoil or step back, she shivers. “Is he in danger?”

Martell’s lips curl. She knows that expression to be disgust. "Ja-"

Her eyes narrow and Martell coughs before beginning again. “ _Ser Jaime_ does not like to unload his burdens onto me.”

Her hackles rise. Martell gives her an apologetic glance. She does not want it. Aborted or not, she heard the pretense of familiarity. Her lips curl. “Then, what good are you?”

Martell bites her lip. “Few at the Keep, possibly outside of the new Lord Commander, trust him or want him near. Those who rule the Keep love to see him chafe.”

“My brother does not chafe.” How could Jaime when she is here? 

Martell sighs. “I think if he does not wish to burden me with this, he would do more for you. He is your brother after all. Since you do not wish to think for yourself beyond what you believe should have happened for you, I would recommend you ask your father”. Martell snorts disgustedly. “All though your father is the one to sell you to a man who is chief among those I meant.”

She will not listen to more of Martell’s stories. “Stop talking.”

Martell gives her a mournful look. “Perhaps that would be wise. I seem to be wasting my breath. All the same it is my duty to warn you: it will prove dangerous if you do not keep your wits about you. If you can keep your eyes open and your mind sharp, carve out a life for yourself no one can take from you and try to make it so it does not make things for your brother worse. If not capable of that, I fear-”

She was never so grateful that the door creaks open. 

“Princess, are you- Cersei?”

Jaime entire face brightens as he embraces her for the first time in months. Gods, finally things are what they should be.

But, no, she cannot have the slightest joy; not when Martell interrupts: “Jaime, where is Sandor?”

Jaime stiffens and pulls away. Jaime’s jubilant face is replaced with the sight of Jaime’s back. “I sent him upstairs, Elia, ah, Princess.”

She noticed the slip. Martell was a no one; a prisoner. Why is Jaime allowing Martell this intimacy? How did that come about? Why? Jaime is hers. He is supposed to be hers. He is not supposed to be anything to Martell let alone ‘Jaime’ and she is not supposed to be ‘Elia’.

Martell’s face grows solemn. “Jaime, as much as I am delighted to see the reunion of a brother and sister, we best be careful about the future queen’s presence here.”

A shiver of terror passes through her as the pair share a significant look even when Jaime’s face smoothens out where there had been a curdled expression before. “Quite right, Princess. These walls do talk. I will escort her back.”

Something sour fills her mouth as she shakes her head. This is wrong. Jaime is her twin. What he knows she should, but, the meaning behind that exchange she does not. How Jaime’s hand comes around her elbow tells her that she will not share in it. Why is her Jaime like this now? 

It’s her. It must be. Martell was making Jaime like this. 

Before she can even voice a protest at this treatment Martell interrupts again. “Shall Sandor and I expect you to sup with us tonight, Ser?”

Martell already took Rhaegar from her. She already took what being married to Robert could be. She cannot have her brother. Now that she was here, Jaime has no need of Martell. “Yes.”

What? Incensed, she tries to pull away, but, Jaime’s grip on her arm is sure.

Jaime coughs. Why is her Jaime uneasy? “Princess, would you give my sister and me a moment?”

Martell hesitates before nodding her head. “Of course, I left Jon for far too long.” 

Jaime visibly deflates and gives Martell a grateful look. Gods, how she hates this woman! “Thank you, Princess.”

Martell turns to her again with a bow. “You must forgive my lack of manners, my lady. In our brief time together, I have not offered congratulations on your wedding nor have I apologized for my inability to join in on the festivities. All I can offer is that I am here if you need an ear.”

With that she is left alone with her brother.

“How long have you be here?”

She bristles. She came here to see him. She listened to that woman’s prattle and this is how Jaime greets her? “I came here for you and this is how you treat me? How dare you?”

Jaime’s face darkens and it takes everything in her not to shake him. They used to be so simple. Why is it so different now? “You should not have come.”

Why is her brother, _her twin_ , acting like this? “What did you want me to do when you stay away? Do you know how much I yearned to see you?”

She shakes her head wildly. No. Jaime does not get to look hurt. “I will take you back to the Keep.”

What is the matter with him? Anger rising, she prompts, “Jaime? Is it because of her? Are you pushing me aside so you can play a more handsome Florian to her ugly Jonquil.”

Crestfallen now, Jaime’s eyes fly wide open. “How can you think that? It isn’t like that with E-“

She sneers at her brother’s hurt look. “What is it like, then? With Elia… Why you think of her when you are with me. You are with me. You are my brother, my love.” She steps closer. Do you love me?” She does not doubt his love for her. She never has, but, today, given everything…given how he kept her waiting, given what awaits her with Robert, she wants to hear it. She needs to hear it.

Jaime presses close to her. “Of course, I do.”

She almost sags in relief. “Then why did you keep me waiting?”

Jaime glances at the closed door fearful? “Keep your voice down, sister. Not now; not here.” 

She stiffens. “When? Where? Why are you set on ignoring me?”

Jaime wraps his hands around her shoulders. “Gods, Cersei I am not. It is just-”

Where she had been leaning in to Jaime, she flinches back. “Is that what this is about? Him? Robert?” She shudders. Even if she had married Rhaegar she would not have abandoned Jaime. She would not do it for Robert. Surely, Jaime must know that? 

“Yes. No. This is about us.”

“Then, why do you keep yourself away from me?”

“I-“

“You what Jaime? Why are you so frightened?”

“I am not.” He sounds so sure, but, she knows her brother enough. HE is lying to her.

“Why are you lying to me, Jaime? What are you not telling me? I do not need protecting.”

Jaime’s lips quirk into smile. “No, but, I am here to do that all the same.” 

“Is it because Robert and his ilk?” 

Jaime’s face darkens again. “You do not need to speak of him.”

“He does not deserve me, does he?”

She shudders when Jaime laughs. This time, the sound is very unlike her Jaime’s. It is a hollow broken thing. It was ugly. It frightens her that her Jaime could sound like this. “No. No, he does not.”

“She said as much.”

Jaime stiffens against her. “What else has she told you?”

Martell said many horrible things; most she wishes she could forget. But, she cannot when Jaime’s face pales. She leans into Jaime further. Something in her eases when Jaime’s arms tighten against her “Nothing of importance.” Anything Martell said she would dismiss as prattle of a madwoman who has nothing and no one. Because it was. It had to be. 

He blinks. “Nothing?”

She purses her lips. Even if the woman was smart enough, or frightened enough, to keep most of what she says with her, no doubt the woman will tell Jaime something. “I asked her to come to the wedding.” 

Jaime pulls away suddenly to grasp at her wrists. “Tell me, you did not.”

She gasps in surprise. “It’s true then?”

Jaime looks at her confusedly. “Is what true?”

“Is it true she cannot leave this house except to go the Sept and if summoned?”

Jaime sighs as turns his head down and away from her. “Do not worry over that, Cersei.”

Before she can think to reply Jaime presses himself closer to her and pulls his lips into a smile, the one that she loves. “No, my sweet Sister, just think of me. Just think of us together now that we can be.”

When she feels the press of his lips again, she tries to forget about Elia Martell and Robert Baratheon. Now with Jaime’s fingers in her hair and his lips upon hers, she tries to think of what it will be like now that they are together once more.

* * *

The wedding and the accompanying feast had been magnificent. All those people cheering for her…Gods, it was glorious. The weight of the diadem upon her head felt right. She imagines herself as she had been; resplendent and beautiful and the envy of all. But, the memory leaves her spent. She cannot get Martell’s warnings out of her mind and nor can she dismiss them. She cannot when Jaime, despite his promises, left her at the earliest opportunity and now how she must wait for Robert. 

Today had been nearly everything she ever wanted, but, not everything. What she truly wanted was denied her. 

She tries to imagine the dreams she had as a young girl. She tries to remember the images her mind used to conjure in her youth, with Rhaegar as her bridegroom. She thinks of what that would have been like, but, now, that the ceremonies had ended and that night had fallen she knows she would have never been queen had Rhaegar lived and that having Martell visible at her wedding to Robert would have been a mistake. 

As much as she likes to imagine Martell having to dress in a plain gown and even plainer jewelry among glittering throngs paying court to her, the image annoys her. Having her look like other widow of modest means would only make her seem weaker and more pitiable. There were so many fools who would long to champion such women.

She had been a fool to think bringing Martell to her festivities would only divert attention from where it should be: on her. She frowns. No, it would have brought her the attention she would not want. 

_The whispers start. Some begin to stand. She does not care about most. Yet, Ser Barristan gasps. Jon Arryn sent her father a baleful glance. The lines on her father’s face sharpen._

_For the first time this evening Robert puts down his wine Martell’s low curtsey. “Your Grace, congratulations on your wedding.”_

_Red-faced and now standing upright Robert’s voice booms. “Cousin, you needn’t have come.”_

_Where there had been triumph, horror settles. Cousin? He calls her ‘cousin’?_

_Robert growls at the nearest attendant. “Do not just stand there, get her a chair.”_

_The boy scrambles and chairs scrape. Much as an invalid might, Martell drags herself pitifully to sit next to Arryn Seeing such a grateful expression on the Dornishwoman’s face, incredulity and dread begins to take root in her. This was not supposed to happen. Martell was not supposed to sup with them. She intended none of this._

_Lord Arryn speaks. “Princess, I you need not have come. I know you have been unwell of late.”_

_The woman smiles as if his deference was her due. Of course, she would. Martell was always jumped up. “I will, of course, with the permission of His Grace take my leave early.”_

_Martell continues when Robert grunts. “Jon with it is much too young to be left with the girl I left him with and young Lord Clegane does not have the disposition for such a task. However, I did not have the heart to refuse when the queen insisted.”_

_Face purple now, Robert grips his goblet tightly. Arryn turns to her with a sharply disapproving glance. “The queen insisted?”_

_“Did she?”Too intent on showing the woman her place she had not bothered listening to Martell’s warnings about Robert and Arryn. Her father, however, worries her most._

_Mildly said, however, she hears the censure, not understanding it. Hadn’t he wanted to see Martell humiliated?_

_“I could not in good conscience refuse a bride on her wedding day.”_

_Uncomfortable titters ring in her ears. Thankfully, Arryn motions for the music to begin playing again and the food and wine begin to flow._

_She tries to forget Martell is there. However, it is difficult when each time Martell is offered something well roasted her dark skin tinges grey. More than that it was how Jaime makes it a point to wave away the offending platters with sharp words and the soft, meek tones she uses to thank him has him smiling. Jaime is hers, and Jaime, her Jaime, barely looks at her._

_Arryn’s wife, the silly slip of a girl, compounds the disaster by asking why Martell refuses the best of the choicest morsels. Martell smiles reassuringly at Lady Arryn who grows abashed at her husband’s rebuke. “It is nothing, my lord. My lady, some cooked meats disagree with me and my constitution was never the strongest.”_

_The Hand murmurs awkward encouragements at Martell. Robert, sitting stiffly, gluts on his wine as if it would run out. Most of the others now try to look anywhere away from Martell. Father, though, is staring at her._

_When it is her time to dance with her father, he grips her tightly enough to hurt. “Do you not appreciate how I tried to make you a queen.”_

_Tried? “I am a queen.”_

_She hears the sneer even if Father’s face is an impassive mask. “You barely act as a lady ought.”_

_Sensing how she almost jerks out of his grasp, he clutches her wrists more firmly. “Father?”_

_She can feel his anger when he presses his cheek against hers. “You failed to act like a queen in your first opportunity.”_

_She almost shakes her head wildly, but, she knows all eyes are upon her. “Father, I haven’t!”_

_His voice grows harsh in her ear. “Born a lady to a great house and now a queen and yet perhaps I erred in thinking you clever enough to act like a proper one.”_

_Disbelieving the vitriol coming from her father, she insists, “I am.”_

_Her father’s face becomes more impassive and more dangerous. “Are you? Then why is it you do not know your proper place. You should know not to embarrass your fathers or your husband.”_

_“I have not, Father.”_

_“Oh? Why is that woman here and at your behest? What do you think you were doing?”_

_“She looks positively shabby.” Why does that not please her father? Doesn’t he want Martell humiliated as she does?_

_“She is not supposed to look like anything. What possessed you to remind the realm she lives?”_

_“I learned from you to ensure your acts are remembered.”_

_Father pulls away enough for her to see his disgust before drawing nearer again. “Charm the husband I sacrificed my men and more gold I should have needed to spend to get you. Bear him children. Make the dregs of this city love you. That is what you ought to be doing. Do what I need you to do and nothing more. Do you understand me, Cersei?” His father lets her go as abruptly as he could without calling attention to them._

She startles from her horrible imagination when the door opens with a bang revealing a ruddy-cheeked Robert.

The closer he steps the stench of drink on him nearly makes her retch. He tries to kiss her. Unprepared for the undesired gestures, she flinches back. He laughs. “There is no need to be shy.”

Despite herself, anger flares. “I am not.”

Robert smirks, but, his eyes they look past her. “Good. Let’s get to it then.”

When he climbs on top of her she shudders. Perhaps he thinks it from pleasure. She knows it is not. 

When she tries to image how being with Rhaegar would have been like or remembers what being in Jaime’s bed had been like, now all she can feel is Robert all around her. She closes her eyes waiting for this to be over. She tries to drown out the way Robert feels and the way he smells. But, all that does is bring to her mind that Martell warned her that though she knows this is what it takes to be queen, being Robert’s queen will never be worth it.

* * *

She wakes alone and she nearly thanks the gods for it. She refrains. If the gods wished for her thanks she would have never married that brutish oaf, Robert. 

That he butchered Rhaegar she had to appear to come to terms with. But, she could not forgive Robert; not for killing Rhaegar and not for what he put her through. Was it not bad enough he had been drunk? That he had been rough with her?

She shudders remembering how she felt tears upon her cheek as he whispered that name in her ear. Lyanna. 

Lyanna Stark is why Rhaegar died. Lyanna Stark is the reason she is forced to marry Robert. The girl is dead and she still haunts her. Why had she been cursed so?

She tells herself to breathe. It does not matter. It does not matter that Rhaegar is lost to her. It does not matter that her monster of a husband thinks of his dead betrayer. All that matters are that she is queen and she has her Jaime. 

That alone fills her with the strength to rise.

She smiles as she sees the flash of white when she opens the door.

“Your Grace.”

Her smile dies. The right words sound wrong because Jaime is not saying them. 

“Who are you? Where is Jaime?”

The purpling bruise on the man’s cheek sharpens the expression into something nearly like a leer. “My queen, I am Ser Lyn Corbray at your service. It is an honor to be your sworn shield.”

Her grip around the door handle tightens. “‘Sworn shield’? You? Jaime is supposed to guard me. Where is my brother?”

A huff of a laugh. “Dragonstone, or going towards it.” 

She nearly snarls at the glee in his tone. “What? Why?”

His lips twitch upwards. “I am told the Lord Commander required him to accompany Lord Stannis.”

What? Why had she not known this? Why had Jaime not told her? “How long is he to remain away?”

Corbray shrugs. “I was not informed.” He said it as if implying that no matter the duration it would be too soon. 

It has been only minutes and the hatred she feels for this so-called knight intensifies a hundredfold.

She tells herself to breathe. She will see to it he is punished later. Jaime was important, not what this puffed-up thing thought.

“When did he leave?” Surely it is not too late for the ship to be turned around.

Corbray’s smirk widens. “Before first light there were some servants attempting to pack his meager belongings-”

Incensed, she growls. “There is nothing meager about my brother.”

Seemingly shocked at her outburst, the knight gapes. “I only meant most of Ser Jaime’s belongings he keeps at the Princess’ manse. From what I was told, he had not intended to remain at the Keep after the festivities concluded.”

Jaime had not intended or he had not been welcome to? 

Putting aside her annoyance at the idea that her Jaime would not remain for the newest reminder of the responsibility forced upon her brother, she searches for any signs of deception on Corbray’s part. Unfortunately, she does not find any. All she has is a supercilious tone not masking his undue arrogance. Oh, but, Corbray is not the only one guilty. Barristan the Bold certainly lives up to his reputation. She lifts her chin. “Is the Lord Commander in the White Tower?”

He drawls, “The meeting chambers of the Small Council.”

She draws herself to her full height. “You are dismissed, Ser.”

He smirks. “As my queen commands.”

He saunters away and she stalks towards her destination where, once again, fate disappoints her. Ser Barristan is there, joined by Jon Arryn.

Both rise and bow awkwardly. The Hand greets her first. “My queen, this is most unexpected.”

Of course, she was unexpected. These men were familiar with the weak-willed likes of Elia Martell and Lysa Tully. They do not know Cersei Lannister. She promises to herself they will learn. “I was equally surprised to see the knight at my door was not my brother.”

Both men share a glance. Arryn turns back to her, saying, “Ser Lyn is a fine knight. He will protect you.” Barristan says nothing, but, he looks away.

“My brother can.”

Barristan frowns. “Ser Jaime is tasked with another duty.”

“Why is he headed towards Dragonestone?”

Both men flinch.

“You know of that?”

She sneers. “I am new to your acquaintance, my Lord Hand, but, surely you must know that a queen cannot afford to be ignorant.”

The pair share another look. Arryn speaks again, palms up as if to soothe her. “No, of course not, all the same, my queen, you have my assurances Ser Lyn will serve admirably.”

She almost sneers. She does not need or desire his paltry assurances. She sees the demeaning attempt at a dismissal for what it is. Men truly are the same no matter where they are. She shoves away that thought so reminiscent of Martell’s warnings. “Have you known Ser Lyn long, Ser Barristan?”

Corbrays, she knew, were Arryn bannermen, but, Barristan the Bold made the appointment. She wanted to know why. Why did he deserve the honor of guarding her person when her Jaime had been here?

“No.”

“His Grace values him for his valiant efforts at the Trident.” 

The Lord Commander’s grimace betrays his discomfort. Arryn nods as if it was truth. She might think more of the disparity behind the reactions, however, only one thing matters. “When will my brother return?”

“When the situation on Dragonstone is more firmly in hand.”

A pitiful non-answer. “Where are my father and His Grace?”

“Lord Lannister left this morning.”

Her father left? 

Eyes narrowed, she asked, “Why?”

“Lord Lannister felt it his duty to return to his responsibilities at Casterly Rock.”

Her suspicions grown at another silent exchange occurring between the two men. A pretense; it must be. Uncle Kevan was more than capable of supervising Casterly Rock in Father’s absence. Was it the same as with Harrenhal? Had father taken Jaime being sent away as an indignity and he chose to return where he was master? Or had he been pushed away now that Arryn and his miserable friends no longer had use for him? They sent Jaime away. Even if they do not wish to admit it, they likely sent her father away.

“My queen, do not fret so. If you have need of anything we can provide it.”

That is a pretty lie; one she will not believe. 

She swallows the bile threatening to come up. Robert was the king. He had to be good for something. She might not need her father, but, she needed her brother. She wanted her brother. “Where is my husband?” 

Lord Arryn says, “Hunting.”

Hunting? She sneers. Of course, Robert ruins her life, leaves her to the tender mercies of his men, and he’s off gallivanting without a thought. “When will he return?”

Arryn sighs. “Forgive me, my queen, he will when he when his task is complete.”

Despite the words, Arryn’s tone contained no wish for forgiveness. As for the dismal answer, it fails to tell her when Arryn spoke of “his task” if he referred to Robert or Jaime.

She turns away without another word. She can do nothing about being dismissed by these fools for now. There is still one matter left unresolved.

* * *

“You did this!”

Startled, Martell glances up from where the dark-haired boy, presumably Stark’s bastard, has Martell’s finger in a viselike grip. “What have I done?”

“You filled my head with horridness!” She will not voice how Martell had been correct. She does not need to.

Martell rises to settles the child in to a cot in the corner of the room only to return to her previously vacated seat. “I warned you of what to expect.”

She snaps back, “Not warning; gloating.”

Martell sighs. “Was it not you who said I have little, if anything, to gloat about.”

Enraged again, she rushes forward. “It must thrill you to make everyone else miserable as you are.”

Martell looks up at her frowning. “I put myself in a more precarious position simply by telling you of what no one else would. You chose not to believe me.”

What does Martell want from her? To hear an admission of truth? Yes, she ignored what was in front of her. She had always known no one would compare to being Rhaegar’s queen. She had always believed that Jaime would be with her. She had been a fool to let herself believe lies. Remembering the feeling of those large, calloused, rough hands and the smell of stale drink on Robert’s breath, cringing, she whispers back, “Yes. You were right and I was a fool not to see it! Is that what you want to hear?”

She shudders when Martell pats the space beside her. She does not take the invitation. “Why would you think I want to hear that?”

Why not? If she had been in Martell’s place she would have. “What do you want from me?”

Martell extends her hand. She steps backwards instead. “Lying to oneself is the worst a person can do. You do not like being Robert’s wife or the queen, do you?”

She cannot bring herself answer.

Martell frowns. “Come here, Cersei.”

She remains where she is. 

She wanted to be queen since she learned of the possibility. Now she is, it is nothing she wanted. She wanted to be Rhaegar’s queen, not Robert’s. He does not see her. What good is being queen when she is barely tolerated by those who govern? What good is being a queen who cannot even have her brother near her? She hates it all. “No.”

She recoils when Martell’s hand on her cheek. “Hush now, my dear girl. It will get better, you will see.” 

She flinches back, but, Martell’s grips her chin.

Martell’s frame is frail. She was the stronger one, wasn’t she? Why does she not tear herself away? Why can she not bring herself to? As with Maggy years ago, though she knew not to listen, she cannot bring herself to go. “How?”

“Perhaps soon you will have children.”

Nausea sets in again remembering her so-called wedding night. She wanted Rhaegar’s children once. Jaime was supposed to be with her. Her dreams of Rhaegar were dead and Jaime was taken from her. Yes, she wanted children once and she will be forced to sire Robert’s. 

“They’ll be Robert’s.” She cannot hide her disgust. She is too nauseated at the prospect to be angry about the way Martell snorts.

“They will be yours.” She almost vomits. She did not want Robert’s children even when they would be hers. They will forever be tied to him. They will be tied to someone she never wanted.

Martell’s finger strokes her cheek gently. Despite the warmth, she shivers. She should pull away. She cannot bring herself to do it.

When was the last time anyone touched her with anything like tenderness? Had she a different father than Tywin Lannister perhaps he might have. Robert’s rough hands grabbed and pulled. Jaime’s touches, welcome as her own were to him, ran hot, desperate, and were done in secret corners. Who could say when she will feel his hands again? This is entirely different. No one touched her gently.

Her eyes are burning and Martell rises and wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Now is not the time for tears, child.”

Child.

Mother. Even when Mother tried to keep Jaime away from her, she used to touch her like this, before that ugly little grumpkin killed her.

She looks towards the source of this warmth to be greeted with a soft smile. Something twists inside her. Martell’s features were dark where her mother’s had been light, but, the tenderness is the same. “There now. Here. It will get better, you will see.”

Oh, how she wants to believe. “How?”

A soft laugh whispers in her ear as she is pulled towards the bed. For once, she lets herself be led. “You are a sharp girl, my dear. Find a way to your own happiness. I am certain you can.”

How is she to find happiness when the world conspires against her? 

A scrap piece of lace is waved in her face. “Start here. Comport yourself like the queen you long to be.”

She takes dainty piece and dabs her eyes as she scolds herself. She should not lose control of herself like this. She should have never allowed it. 

“There now. Take a few minutes before you get back to the Keep.” That gentle touch jerks away and her eyes fly wide open. 

What? “You cannot order me about.”

Elia sighs. Elia presses herself closer and it stuns her when Martell puts her head on her shoulders. “It would not be very wise for you to stay for very long. Robert is not Aerys, yet, this failing of yours you must correct if you wish to prosper. You are not very conspicuous. You should be careful.” 

A new fear seeps into her. What if someone told?

“I am not worried.”

Her eyes flutter as Elia comes closer, lips pressed near her ear. “People talk, you know this. And, dear girl, they would love to talk about you as they still might about me.” 

‘Talk’, Elia says when she means ‘gossip’.

She shivers when Elia’s hand is pressed against hers. “You are not the first nor will you be the last to come and gawk, but, for this to become a known habit of yours would be unwise and of late I find few people, and fewer ladies, of caliber care to speak to me. My failings are well known, but, it would be a pity for such a luxury to be further diminished.”

Is Elia saying what she thinks she is? “Do you want me to return?”

“Yes.” Something curiously warm starts to fill her until, “Surely you know how lonely it can be?”

She pulls out of Elia’s grasp, insisting, “Why would I know the feeling?”

A cold feeling grips her when Elia pulls away and sneers, but, she relaxes when that gentle weight returns. “We have only just spoken about this appalling tendency to lie to yourself.” 

“Who are you-”

“The one know knows how dangerous and how easy the impulse is to believe the lie. Your father sold you to Robert.” The accusation feels like a slap. But, it stings lessens when followed by “As my mother did me to Aerys.”

Dark eyes flash. “Your brother serves the same men my brothers abandoned me with.”

“My brother is not like yours!”

The Dornishwoman smiles. “You love your brother, yes?”

Abruptly, she stands and backs away. “Never doubt my love for him.”

Elia turns her pleading eyes on her. “I do not. I only mean we live on the sufferance of others who cannot be trusted. You desire Ser Jaime’s swift return as I do, no doubt more. They already sent him away on a pretense. It would be unsurprising if they kept him away to keep us docile. Whenever he is given leave to return it is my hope that he is not burdened due to intemperance on my part or another’s.” Martell stops abruptly and turns away as if embarrassed at her outburst.

Even then, she heard what Martell stopped herself for saying. They already took him away. They might keep him away. Her father was already gone and Robert hated her brother… Jaime could be punished if she pushed too hard. She saw how little Robert and his men think of her. To have her Jaime back, if playing the part of a simpering woman is what is required, she would do it.

Yet, one thought plagues her. “Why does it matter to you?”

Elia glances away before whispering. “We might have been sisters once.”

She snaps, “Jaime would have never married you.” No matter his behavior the other day, she knows Jaime loves her too much to think about anyone else. 

Elia sighs. “No, perhaps not. I only meant that we are now undeniably bound. Not only are we are tied to this place until we are given over to earth we are tied by more than that. Is there any other woman in this thrice accursed city who hates Robert as you and I do? When you can tell your brother only so much Who else can you share your secrets with? Your fears? It is not as though I have no reason to tell anyone anything. That alone is why you should trust me.” 

She trembles. The surety in Elia’s voice shakes her. When she had Jaime, she had not needed one or anyone else. But, she does not have Jaime now, does she? “Can I come to see you come again?”

Elia smiles. “Please be careful when you do.”

“I will.” She promises herself that. For now, she must be careful. For now, she will play the part required of her.

Elia gives her a kiss on the cheek and stands up and takes her hand. “I look forward to it, Sister.”

She almost snapped again of how they were not sisters, yet, something in her did not allow it. She did not give name to the feeling; she dare not.

Besides, Elia was right. Without Jaime, who else was there for her? Her father? Her uncles? Tyrion? Her beast of a so-called husband? His arrogant, unpleasant friends? Empty headed courtiers who would enjoy building her up who would revel if she fell?

No matter what is done to her, she would persevere of course. She was a Lannister of Casterly Rock and the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She would endure. She would and could do more than that. All the same there was something in knowing that there was someone else near her who knew her, who she could rail at and with. That, it was Elia Martell, who was in no position to betray her without endangering herself…well…it was a comfort where she has not known much if any.


	5. Barristan, 283 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The disclaimer: I own nothing. All things recognizable are property of G.R.R. Martin, David Benioff, D.B. Weiss, & company, & the asoiaf wiki.
> 
> As always, thanks for the reads, comments, kudos, and bookmarks.
> 
> Note: This chapter contains violence and references to violence, rape, and war related atrocities.

He straightens his spine and prepares himself to do his duty. He is Kingsguard; they serve the office, not the individual king and now he serves Robert as he had Aerys. That he might have served Rhaegar had things been different does not allow for a difference. 

“My princess, your presence is requested at the Keep.”

She gawks at him, her face losing color. “At the Keep?” Her hands tighten around the bunched material of her gown. 

It is easy to shift his gaze to a point behind her head.

“Yes.”

She gulps air. “When?”

“Now.”

“Now?” She repeats the question. He looks back to wide, brown eyes.

“Yes, now.”

The frightened look in her eyes makes him regret the sharp rebuke. 

His embarrassment stretches as he urges, “We should go at your earliest convenience.”

Though she stands, she grimaces. He feels foolish. This has little to do with convenience and they both know it. “Is Lord Arryn unwell?”

While her voice is low, he heard the fear in it. He frowns at her. “Why would you think he is unwell?” Why would she fear if he was?

She looks away. “If he needed me…He comes here.” She finished emphatically.

“Why would you think Lord Arryn is who calls you?”

Alarm mars her features. “Who else could it be? Who else there would want to see me?” The second question she spoke so softly as though she had not meant for him to hear.

He offers, “Lord Arryn is in the Eyrie.”

She nods, but, asks a question he had not ever expected her to. “Does the queen desire I attend to her?”

“Why would you think so?”

Her face goes curiously blank. “It is nothing.”

It is not nothing if it can be thought of. “My princess,” he urges.

She wets her lips. “She came to see me some weeks ago.”

The queen came to see _you_? Why?”

Seeing his shock, the princess gives him a half smile. “Who else could she ask about what being a queen should entail than the one person in King’s Landing who might have one?”

A lump in his throat forms remembering the king he served and the one Crown Prince he would have been happy to. He flushes. The queen should not have come here. At least he knows that will not happen again since the edict came down.

The princess falls silent. He almost gives up hope for an answer when the princes sighs, “I would imagine being a Lannister in King’s Landing is difficult enough without knowing this city is a rather dismal place for one’s dreams to die.”

He winces thinking of what dreams this woman might have had once. 

The princess shrugs. “Though I certainly am in no position to turn her away, I would have never turned away a young bride, especially one so lonely.”

“Why do you think her lonely?”

She smiles tightly. “Ser Jaime may fix that whenever he returns.”

“Ser Jaime is here.”

A grimace settles across her features. She had not heard. He reminds himself no one would have thought to tell her. He had not.

Thinking himself unkind a moment ago, he offers, “The queen wished to see him first.”

Queen Cersei had become adamant that her brother be made available to her more often. To keep the peace, the king had relented to a point. For certain occasions Jaime may come to the Red Keep to attend to the queen. Jaime was never allowed to guard the king himself. It was an arrangement which might suit everyone. 

She nods, again making a show of being unconcerned. “All the better.”

He quite agrees. As it was, talking more of the queen to the princess serves little purpose. The queen is not to venture here anymore. The queen was indulged once. This was an association not welcomed by the king or the Hand of the King.

Something in her eyes forced him to him ask, “Why would you believe so?”

The princess sighs. “I do not suppose it matters. I have not had the pleasure of her company again. It is clear how much she loves her brother and it is good that he is so good to her.”

Something in him sours hearing yet another instance of faith in Jaime. 

“Come, my princess, we must go. The king requests your presence.”

She blanches. “The king? Surely, he does-”, 

Sighing, she continues, “Forgive my impertinence, Lord Commander. It does not matter. I am a loyal subject. It is my duty to attend to the wishes of the crown.”

The guilt he tries hard to suppress begins gnawing at him again. Unpleasant sensations flit across his skin hearing her words of loyalty and duty. In the unspoken words, he hears the knowledge of her lack of choice. 

He’d heard her say similar words before directed towards a different king. The same king he served once. Then, those false words had been built on fear. While he lamented how it came to be, he had never regretted bending the knee to a different king. Hearing those words again with the same sentiment behind them from the same source.

And he cannot aid her.

He’d seen the king’s face. This had been no mere demand.

He swallows.

He has made his choice and so now he must bring the princess to the king he now served. 

He had expected her acquiescence he had not expected his path to become disturbed by a man with terrible scar barring their exit. “You went to the Sept yesterday.”

Nonplussed, his frown vastly differs from the princess’ calm visage. “I did.”

He peers more intently at the large frame. For all that the figure is tall and broad, this is not quite a man yet. “You aren’t to go today.”

The princess sighs. “I am not going there.”

“The old man said you can only go there.” 

What old man?

Her lips purse. “Lord Arryn, Sandor”. 

Sandor _Clegane_ , he realizes. His distaste grows. He heard the boy had come to King’s Landing to squire for Jaime, but, Jaime never talked about the lad and though he returned only this morning Jaime had been at Dragonstone for the last few weeks. Only now he remembers, the boy had not gone with Jaime. Why had the boy remained behind?

The boy frowns. “Yeah, him. That’s what he said.”

The princess cajoles, “Lord Arryn is not the only one I must obey.”

“Ja-.”

Jaime again? Even then, he rebukes, “Ser Jaime does not have to tell you anything.”

The boy glares angrily, but, dismisses him by returning his attention to the princess. “Where’s he takin’ you, then?”

“Red Keep.”

Suspicion twists that ugly face into something uglier. “You don’t go there.” He starts. She’d nearly said the same thing.

With more patience than he thought is warranted she says, “I am today.”

Disbelieving, the boy crossed his arms. “Why?” The sheer audacity makes him desires to box in the boy’s ears.

“The King wants me.”

The boy stubbornly crosses his arms. “You’re lyin’.”

He is shocked. And the princess’ reply of, “You know better than that,” does little to dispel it.

The boy laughs. He laughs how he looks, ugly and harsh. “I am not stupid. He put you here so he wouldn’t have to look at you.”

Outraged at the words and the tightness of the princess expression, he demands, “You dare-”

At the same time, the princess remarks, “No one said you were stupid, Sandor, but, whatever the reason, he calls and I must go.” 

Still ignoring him, the boy raises his chin. “Hurry back.”

In no mood to suffer more of this insolence he moves to step forward. “You are –”

The princess putting her hand on his arm halts the rest of what he burned to say. She still looks at the boy.

“Jon is a sleep. Jeyne is watching him. I would appreciate it if you looked in on them both while I am gone.”

He stares. That is what she concerns herself with!

“Do I have to?” Hearing the plaintive whine from this coarse, brutish boy is disconcerting given his previous troublesome attitude. 

It is more confusing when the boy relents when faced with a soft-voiced, “I hope it will not take long.”

The boy turns from her only to start glaring at him! “It better not.” 

With that threat leveled, Clegane stomps away.

“He is uncouth.” That is the mildest reprimand he can think of! “Whatever Ser Jaime lets him get away with it, I won’t have it.”

“Think nothing of it, Lord Commander.” How indifferent she sounds chills him.

“He has no manners!”

She hums noncommittally. “He was orphaned young and largely untaught. Besides, teaching him pretty manners will never be a priority, for Ser Jaime or anyone else.”

He does not understand Clegane or her response to him. “Why have him here at all if he’s not to be taught all a knight should be?”

She shakes her head. She almost seems disappointed in him. “Come now Lord Commander, he is not here to be a proper knight.”

“What is his purpose if not that?” 

The shrill and cold laughter so unlike the ones he had come to associate with this princess of Dorne shocks him. Despite himself, he steps back at the sneer on her face. “Sandor is here to be the brother of Gregor Clegane.”

As she walks through the door without another word he hears her chortling.

* * *

How silent the princess could be is disquieting. 

It was unnerving when he held out his hand to help her down from the palfrey she rode and she quietly elected to climb down herself. 

It had been disturbing when she swept up the steps and past the gaping maws of the shocked doorkeepers without so much of a backward glance.

Now she remains silent while bowing to Robert. It was the same rigid bow she used to give to Aerys.

It worries him. Robert was not Aerys. That was why-

“Where are they?”

She flinches at the king’s growl.

Stannis Baratheon, the newly established Lord of Dragonstone gives her a look which might have been sympathy on another face as she takes an inadvertent step back. sympathetic glance at the half step she takes back. The man begins, “Princess-”

The king interrupts, repeating his last question. “Where are they?”

She startles. “Who?”

The king sits up, sneering. “Don’t play dumb, woman. I know you know where they are, both those things. You know everything else. Why wouldn’t you know this?” He yells the last phrase. 

Her gaze flits between brothers. Getting no help from either man, she replies. “I do not know what you speak of.”

“Why wouldn’t you? Surely your friends would have told you-”

She laughs in that bitter way he still cannot fathom she is capable of. “Your Grace, I have no friends here.”

The king scoffs. Stannis Baratheon begins with, “Prince Viserys-”

“Don’t you dare call him that!” The king rounds on his brother. “He is dragonspawn not a prince and not a king despite what that woman gave him!” 

Even without the confusion on her face, he is satisfied that she truly knows nothing. He would not want to-No, he will not think of that. “What?”

Wincing, he explains “Queen Rhaella crowned him with before he was able to escape.”

Tears start rimming her eyes even when the king howls in disgust. “That poor boy.”

“ _Poor boy_? He is no boy! Tell me where he is, you useless woman!”

The king springs from the Iron Throne, stalking towards the wide-eyed princess. Stalking toward her with his brother at his heels, he bellows, “Viserys? The babe? Where are they?”

“He is supposed…Dragon...but....” She turns her fearful gaze towards the Hand. An anxiousness seeps into her tone. “I do not understand. He is supposed to be on Dragonstone with his mother. And what babe?” 

Comprehension dawns, “Rhaella had the baby?” He sees her moment of joy transform in to dread. “How is Rhaella? Is she well?” 

For a moment, it shocks him that she does not know what happened to the former queen. It surprises him that she does not know, but, his surprise is more in how he is surprised. Of course, she would not know. Who would tell her? 

No one else would think to and until this moment it had not occurred to him that he could have done so. He should have done it. She should not have had to learn this in this manner. He should not have let her learn it in this way.

“Why do you not mention Rhaella? Where is she if not with them?” Even through fear, those clever brown eyes look flick from face to face. Whatever answer she sought, she found. She herself pronounces: “She is dead.”

Her voice, once always soft is feverish in grief and he cannot bring himself to speak. 

How is he to say that the good girl, the better woman, the great queen Rhaella used to be was now in the arms of the Stranger. Just like her husband, most of her children, her grandchildren. Just like so many others.

How is he to tell her this? He does not even know where Rhaella’s children, the last of them, are? 

This lady before him already lost too much. Her husband, her children, her uncle. How could he tell her that she lost even more? What can he say? What comfort can he offer when today, he feels less brave than he had when he faced Maelys.

“She is.” Lord Stannis contributes. 

Even as he glares at the young lord for his tactlessness, he steps forward in case she faints, his fears are baseless. She grows pale, but, he realizes it to be in fury. “How? Did you kill her? Or was she already dead through treachery and you just smiled over her corpse. You Baratheons are good at that, aren’t you?” 

She stumbles from the force of the blow of the king’s fist.

“Robert!” “Your Grace!”

The King growls! “Get her out of my sight.”

He moves, but, he is intercepted by Lord Stannis who guides her from the room. “Princess, come with me.”

He thinks little of it until Baratheon drags her down the empty corridor, stopping when he gets to a rarely used room, turning to him, saying, “She died giving birth to the girl.”

“A girl?” For a moment, she smiles, but, it dies when Lord Stannis speaks again. “They were smuggled out before I got to Dragonstone.”

He had not been there to see it, but, he heard of the King’s fury at the revelation of Ser Darry’s success at securing Prince Viserys and the young princess’ escape. Seeing what he had just now…

“You do not know where they are?”

She glowers. “No.” 

Baratheon asks, “Do you know where they might have gone?” They’d heard grumblings, but, nothing definite. Two duties warred within him. Duty towards the family he served once and duty to the one he serves now and he can do nothing.

She shakes her head again. “No, my lord, I do not. What can I possibly know? I haven’t seen Rhaella or Viserys since they were sent away to Dragonstone. I have heard nothing in months. No one would tell me anything about them. What can I possibly know? Her face twists. “I haven’t even thought-Perhaps I am useless. I forgot them. How horrible I am.” 

She ends in a sob that makes him want to comfort her, but, he refrains at Lord Baratheon’s bark.

“You may go, Ser.”

“No.”

Baratheon grinds his teeth. “Now, Ser Barristan.”

He will do no such thing. “Lord Baratheon I brought the princess here.”

Lord Stannis bites out, “And you have my word I will see her home.”

He shakes her his head. “I cannot leave the princess with you. My duty-”

Baratheon hisses. “Your duty is to do what the king’s family requires of you. My brother is the king. Leave us.”

He means to refuse again, but, the princess speaks for the first time since taken away from the throne room. “Ser, you may leave us. I trust Lord Baratheon-”

Dumbfounded, he interjects, “You trust him?”

The princess lifts her chin. “I trust Lord Baratheon to ensure my safety.”

Even Baratheon looked nonplussed. “Why?”

She turns to the young man. “Have you given me reason to distrust you?”

Where the King might have looked triumphant, Baratheon looks disgruntled. “No.”

“Then, I will trust you,” she says simply. The princess turns to him again. “Ser Barristan, please.”

He had known the Targaryens since Prince Duncan took pity on him. He’d been a Kingsguard since King Jaehaerys bestowed it upon him and served and will serve every king after him. 

Hadn’t he served faithfully? Hadn’t he proved his worth? Why send him away? Why does she not rely on him when he offers his aid. Seeing the hard face of the king’s brother and the blank face of the princess, he knows he will not get an answer.

He vacates the room, but, he is reassured that he has been Kingsguard for so long that he knew more than a few of the secrets of this place. 

It is not difficult to hear from the gap in the wall he leans agains. “…more than most.”

She smiles. He cannot decipher it’s meaning, nor does he know when he last saw her smile. It hurts knowing that it is Baratheon that it is directed towards. “At the very least, young Clegane will notice my prolonged absence.” 

Sharply, Baratheon questions, “Clegane?” Baratheon sounds disgusted.

The princess answers. “Ser Jaime’s squire.”

Baratheon frowns. “Princess, what does he have to do with you?”

“Did you not travel to Dragonstone with Ser Jaime? Or speak to him while there?”

Baratheon grimaces. “There were other concerns.”

The princess smiles again, this one is worryingly bland. “Clegane reports on my movements to Lord Arryn.” Even witnessing the proof of this, the plainness of her response shakes him. 

“How does he manage that?” 

“Is my lord informed of the arrangements the Hand of the King made on my behalf?”

“Some of them,” comes the terse reply.

“Clegane’s admittance into the household was a condition of Lord Lannister’s cooperation.” 

As far as he knows, this Baratheon and the princess never met. He had seen at how she reacts to King Robert, the anger and the hatred. With Arryn, there was that dutiful, ambivalence. And now with Baratheon, it’s bareness.

The realization behind it all, that none of this matters to her, makes his heart heavy. 

“I see,” Baratheon replies. The princess merely shrugs. Baratheon’s lips twitch, his expression nearing disgust. Perhaps that is why he deflects, “Do you know where they are?”

“No.” 

Baratheon pounces. “Would your brothers house them?” 

“No.”

“How are you so certain.”

“I know my brothers. Doran would not allow it.”

“No?”

“No.”

“And Prince Oberyn?”

He holds back a wince. He’d met Prince Oberyn before and knew well of the man’s fiery temper. He remembers that he had counted it a fortunate circumstance Prince Oberyn had been in Essos at the time of the tourney at Harrenhal. No matter Prince Doran’s forbearance, he too knew the Hand fretted about Prince Doran’s ability to stay his younger brother’s hand.

“No. My brother knows his duty.”

“His duty?”

The princess smiles, this one is ironic. “What greater duty is there besides the one to one’s family?”

“Why not? It is not as though they have no cause to be truly loyal. What better way to prove it than house –”

The princess begins to claim, “My presence-”

Despite his composure, the younger man gives what one could consider to be a wince had he been anyone else. Baratheon advances towards her. “Do not mock me.”

“I am not. My brothers lo-”, she halts mid word, eyes wide. She begins again, hesitatingly, “My brother, Prince Doran, is a cautious man.”

Lord Stannis sneers, “Princess, you need not prevaricate. You can say it. Your brothers will do what we want because they love you.”

“I am truly sorry, my lord.” He does not know why she said it, but, he knows she means it.

Baratheon does not appear to appreciate the answer. “Save your pity for yourself.”

She laughs hollowly. “Of late I find that I am not capable of much pity.”

“What are you capable of?” Was that not the question?

“Desire.”

“What do you desire?”

She sighs. “May I ask a boon of you?”

Giving her a suspicious look, Lord Stannis bites out, “What?”

“Were you aware that when I was married, Dragonstone became my home.”

Baratheon purses his lips. “I am. What of it?”

“When I was I had not been able to settle things.”

Even Baratheon displays curiosity. “What sort of things did you wish to settle?”

“The bulk of my possessions from before my marriage and during it are on Dragonstone or at least they were.”

Baratheon glares. “‘Were?’ Do you think I stole your things?” He raises his hand. “You need not answer, Princess. You already believe I am capable of murdering a woman. But, rest assured, I have taken nothing from you.”

For the first time, she seems saddened. But, why? “No, my lord. You misunderstood me. I only meant that I cannot trust that no one raided my things in my absence. It was not as though those still at Dragonstone were told to expect my return. As it happens, anyone who thought so would be correct.”

Seemingly unmollified by the explanation, Baratheon bites out, “Of what remains what would you like done? Do you wish me to provide you with some?”

“You would allow me to ask?” The hopeful expression on her face makes his own hurt.

Baratheon grimaces. “What would you like done with your things. If you know be quick with it, Princess. I will not make this offer again.”

“Are some of my ladies still at Dragonstone?”

Baratheon’s face darkens. “I believe so.”

She begins hesitantly. “There was a lady named Alys. Is she still-”

This Baratheon seems only capable of terse words. “Yes.”

“She would be able to tell you what of my things which belonged to House Martell and what did not. If possible, my brothers should get to decide what to do with what I brought. The rest of it, my clothes, the jewels…of my ladies still here, if there are things they like, please allow them to take them. And from whatever remains, I should like to see their wages settled and if possible, of the ones not of Dragonstone, please let them go home. They should not have to suffer more for my inability to aid them when they needed it.”

“Of the rest?” 

“To an alms house or sell them. Do whatever you like except...”

Again, Baratheon displays impatience. “Well?”

She breathes deeply, “Please do not save anything to give you any woman who would be your lady. It would be an ill-omened thing to give a new bride the belongings of a cursed woman.”

Baratheon frowns. “And the rest of it?”

She squints. “Such as?”

“The children’s things.” She flushes and Baratheon looks away doing the same. He feels the heat in his own face rise uncomfortably. 

“Please give them to any orphanage you might deem suitable.”

Baratheon returns to staring at her. “You do not want them?”

Something hard lodges in his throat seeing the tears fall from her eyes for the first time today. “Please do not make me look at them.”

Baratheon frowns as he awkwardly holds out a handkerchief. His unease increases when Baratheon asks, “What else?”

“What else is there?”

“You have not mentioned Prince Rhaegar’s things.”

He straightens. Surely Baratheon had not just asked that! 

She looks thoughtful for a moment. “His harp.”

“That is all?” Baratheon asks her the same question he asks himself. How could she want nothing else of Prince Rhaegar’s?”

Her lips tighten before she answers. “Yes. I should like his harp.”

“Nothing else?”

The second time today does she let anger show. “The only things he gave me of any worth died in this palace along with my dignity. I only want his harp. Do whatever you like with the rest of his belongings. I care not.”

* * *

He grimaces. The last face he wanted to see was young Clegane’s ugly one made uglier by the glare he seems to favor.

“What do you want?”

It is so difficult to stifle his annoyance. “Let me in.” 

“No.”

“Boy-”

“I am not playin’ any games. What do you want?”

“Clegane, I wish to speak to the princess.”

The boy crosses his arms across his chest. Otherwise he does not move.

“Step aside, Clegane,” He growls. 

Clegane laughs in his face. “No.” 

His fingers clench. Gods, in this moment nothing would nearly give him more pleasure than hitting this boy. “I am not going to ask again.”

Clegane steps so close their noses nearly touch. “You didn’t ask me the first time. The answer is still no.”

He puts his hand on this boy’s neck. “Let me in, boy! I want to speak to the princess.”

Clegane sneers. “She don’t want to speak to you. Go away.”

“Why you-”

Clegane easily pushes him away. “Don’t you have anything else better to do then go where you aren’t wanted?”

“I’ll let her be the judge of that.”

Clegane’s lips curl. “Are you stupid or something? She don’t get to decide who sees her. Even the queen’s not allowed to come here anymore. Even if she could see anyone she wanted, I already told you: You. Are. Not. Wanted.”

“I am not leaving until I get the answers I want from her.” 

Clegane glares at him again. “You won’t be getting any from her. She’s been lying in bed all day. She ain’t coming out her rooms and I ain’t letting you make her sick.” 

Concerned, he presses, “Is she sick?”

“Don’t you worry, Ser.” He’d never heard the title said with such dripping disdain. Only his purpose forces his hand. “If you got questions, ask me. I’ll answer them, old man, since you’ll never leave otherwise.”

Knowing he’ll never get in and the boy is too large to push pass and he will never hear the end of it if he takes a sword to the boy, he allows, “It is a private matter between the princess and myself.”

Clegane snorts. “She has no private matters. Not anymore; not with you.” The boy sniggers like he just remembered a private joke.

“What?” 

“That is a private matter between the me and the Princess.” The boy sniggers again.

Warningly, he growls, “Clegane!”

Clegane huffs, “Hurry up. Ask your damned questions.”

“I wanted to know why she broke Prince Rhaegar’s harp.””

Clegane’s face darkens. His fists clench. “You sneak! Why were you spying on me and the king’s brother’s pet smuggler?”

“I had a right to know.”

No longer angry Clegane howls in laughter. “‘Right’, old man? What rights do you think you have?”

“I served the family of her husband-”

Clegane laughs before he spits on the ground near his foot. Gods. Who would make this thing a knight? Why even try? But, what else is he supposed to expect this was the brother of the Mountain.

“You ain’t serving it now, aren’t you? Why do you care about her things or what she does with them?”

Disregarding the first question, he answers the second, “It did not belong to her.”

Clegane smirks. “Take it up with Baratheon if his giving it to her bothers you so much.”

His jaw clenches at the dare. Lord Stannis is at Dragonstone and not the sort to think kindly of anyone interfering. He is not even supposed to know about this.

“It does not bother me that she had it. It’s what she did with it that does.”

“If you want a harp so badly, go buy one. Ain’t the king paying you?”

“I do not want one.” 

Clegane is annoyed once again. “Then, why are you here trying to bother her about it for?” 

“I wanted to speak to her about it.”

“She don’t want to talk to you,” Clegane returns.

“It was her husband’s harp.”

“And now it’s rubble I threw away.”

“Why did she break his harp?” Why would anyone ask for one thing only to destroy it?

Clegane scoffs, “What’s it matter? Did you want to put it near your pillow? Cry over it? Do you think he’ll come back to life and play it for yer?”

He smacks the boy with a mailed fist. 

Shocked, the boy steps back and brings a hand to his face. When Clegane pulls it away there is blood on it from where he struck. 

He would feel satisfied and he had for that one brief moment his fist connected with skin, but, the boy gives him a bloody smile. “It made her happy. She enjoyed smacking it against the wall the same way my brother liked doing the same to her boy.”

Blood rushes through his ears. Clegane pushes him away. “There now. You got your answer. Go away and don’t come back.”

The door slams in his face with the sound of Clegane’s laughter echoing.

* * *

He frowns. 

The woman looked familiar. Fair-haired with beautiful eyes to match a beautiful face. He knows her. He cannot place her. But, he knows her.

He tries to think of where he knows her from. Not the palace, he thinks. The clothes she wears are fine but much too simple for that. He does not remember her from any time he had been at the Sept. 

He cannot place her, but, he knows her. She knows him too. The dark expression on her comely face only made more noticeable by the wild look she gives him before turning and weaving through the crowded thoroughfare says as much.

He’s never been looked at like that. By anyone. Why now? Why her? Who was she that she was both familiar and not? What had he done to her? Who was she?

It is only after she vanishes from his sight and he makes his way through the White Tower that her name comes to him. Nyssa, he remembers now. Bile rises in his throat. He also remembers the man who whispered that name to him. He only has the memories now. 

Lewyn’s Nyssa.

He had not liked knowing that his brother of the Kingsguard broke one of their edicts, but, he had accepted this failing of his brother’s. Lewyn had been discreet for a Dornishman and was it not the duty of a brother to keep secrets?

The next day he eschews the white garb he is so proud of and makes his way down Shadowblack Lane. He dons simple black and a brown cloak to cover it. He has not been in this city for many years not to know where one solitary woman might live especially when the reason for her being in King’s Landing had resided atop Aegon’s Hill. 

His mind burns with the questions he goes to her with.

A stranger with a placid face greets him. He identifies himself and asks after Nyssa. She brightens and relents immediately. “Nyssa, come quick, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to see you!”

Nyssa emerges from a room in the back of this house. Closer to his quarry than he had been the last time he saw her, he can see why a man like Lewyn could break his vows. The child in her hands, though, gives him pause. Had Lewyn known of the child? If so, why had he not said? Did Lewyn’s kin know? Doubt begins to creep in. Was the child even Lewyn’s?

After giving him a long look, Nyssa turns to the other woman. “The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Serra? To see me? Ah, well, can you take the little one for a while?”

Little one; not a name. Lewyn’s woman is a sharp one. He almost snorts. Of course, Lewyn would never break his vows for a dullard. None the less, his curiosity increases. When alone with her, he blurts, “Is he Lewyn’s?” 

Nyssa snorts. “No.”

“Then whose is it?” Her eyes narrow. She does not like the implication. He does not blame her. Even though the idea was dismissed he had thought only minutes ago.

She answers, coolly, “A dead girl I knew.”

“In the child bed?”

Nyssa’s lips pinch. “She killed herself,” is the stark reply.

“Why did she do that?” 

Nyssa’s jaw tightens. Even then, she quickly answers. “Before it happened the girl said something about the boy growing to look a lot like his father.”

“Was there no family to take him in. Did she love him?” Can the memory of love be too much? Lady Dayne had been lovely, oh so very lovely, but, to kill oneself for love lost? She had, he thinks. Could he have done the same?

Ordinarily he would not ask so many questions about someone he never met, but, he dislikes the quick, detached way Nyssa answers his questions. She had run from him before. Now it seems she is doing everything in her power to rush him away.

Nyssa straightens. “She had no family. The sire was a Lannister soldier who forced himself on the her.”

He winced as she rattled off the truth of the boy’s birth and felt another twinge of pity for the girl. He finds himself asking, “How did you come by him?”

Brittle laughter greets him. “I knew the girl and there are only so many orphanages in the city no matter how much gold the old Lion throws at this city to erase the damage he and his did.” She sighs. “What is it that I can help you with?”

He blinks confusedly. “I am not here for your help.”

The hardness in Nyssa’s face only increases her beauty. “Then do me the courtesy of leaving and never returning.”

In shock, he blurts, “Why?”

Her eyes become slits. “You dare ask me that? Please go. I have nothing for you!” 

“Yes, you do. Why did you run from me?”

She grimaces. “I did not want to see you.”

“What have I done that you would not wish to see me?”

She straightens, the look on her face, belligerent. “I need a reason to avoid a turncloak?”

He staggers back. “A turncloak? You would call me a turncloak. I have been loyal Kingsguard.” How could she even think-

She sneers. “Is it not true that you swore fealty to Baratheon after the Trident?”

“Yes.” Disliking this turn of conversation, he answers hesitatingly.

A half smirk stretches across her face. “Turncloaks are men who are loyal until they are not. Was Aerys not king then? Then you are a turncloak, aren’t you?”

“You knew what the king became.” He will not phrase it as a question. He knew Lewyn. Lewyn would trust this woman. He was sure of it.

She nods, but, there is no sympathy in her. “I am not ignorant of what Aerys was, but, after all these years and all that you have seen, why only now does that matter?”

“Lewyn served him too! Lewyn fought under Aerys’ banner.”

“You did not fight for the same reasons Lewyn did.”

“You are right in that, is that what you want to hear? I fought for King Aerys because it was my duty, but, what would you have me do, my lady. Lewyn was dead and even if I wished to join him I could not and the war was lost. I could not serve Aerys any longer. I just could not.” 

“And so you bent the knee to that man?” The last word was spit out as though poison.

“He spared my life.” He feels wretched and had at the time, but, he had to make her understand. He needs her to. 

“They say he smiled at the mangled sight of Meria’s grandchildren. They were Lewyn’s family and still you claim to love him.”

“I swear if I had seen it I would have struck him down!”

She laughs. “And because you did not see it then it must be the same thing as it never happening at all. Well, how fortunate that you can take comfort in that. Next you’ll tell me that it was a comfort that Lewyn had been dead before he could have seen it or that their butcher is now your king’s good-father!”

“You are not the only one who loved Le-”

She slapped him. “You dare speak his name? You fiend!” Shocked, he can only listen as she goes on, “His body was still warm when you bent the knee to Baratheon. How can you even mention his name and love in the same sentence? You had not turned your back on everyone he loved.”

“He was my brother-”

She sneers, “And now you replaced him as ‘your brother’ with his killer! Did you think no one would notice, _Ser_? Did you think that would matter to no one? I noticed. To me, it does matter.”

“I could not refuse the king this appointment.”

She laughs. “Why not? Do you fear him?” She laughs again. “You, the man who slew Maelys, the man who freed Aerys from Duskendale? They say that Baratheon was injured in battle as well. That man named you Lord Commander. You must fear him so much that you were smiling when you stood by him while he put that blood-stained crown on his head. Yes, of course, that man struck fear in you.”

“The war was lost and they were dead. What would you have me do?”

She sneers. “Lewyn’s niece still lives. Did you forget her too?”

“I fought for her. It is because of me that she was not sent to the Faith, the Silent Sisters. They would have never let her go. Is that what you think? That because I asked they would?”

Her face is marred in fury. “Did you bother to try or would that prove too taxing? What do you think would have happened if she was allowed to return along with Lewyn’s bones? Lewyn’s nephews were not in any position to rise up in rebellion again. Pah!”

She shakes her head. “Never mind, what is the use? All I will get from you are pretty words about vows and honor and then nothing. That’s what most of you Kingsguard are good for. Nothing.”

She turns away in disgust. “But, I suppose any effort is better than nothing to the likes of you even when knowing that she can never leave this accursed city not even by her own hand!”

“What?”

For the first time, there was pure fear in her face. He presses, “What do you mean?”

In an instant what trepidation there had been vanished. “You know what I meant. Don’t you fear now. She will not try to take her life again.”

“She tried before?”

She seems shocked at the question. Why? “So you do not know. Hmn, so not all of you are worthless after all.”

Because he does not understand her meaning he is ill-prepared for her next words. “It does not matter. What matters is that she will not. Do not worry. You will not have to answer for her actions, neither will the king you serve.”

He can barely begin to parse that before she rounds on him again. “Now, that I have answered your questions I have one thing to ask of you.” 

“What?” What can she possibly have to ask him? Evidently, she wanted nothing to do with him!

With her head thrown back, once more he thinks he sees what Lewyn might have fallen in love with. “If you loved Lewyn as you think you did, please do those who _he_ loved the courtesy of not burdening us with your presence. While we can do nothing about it, it is unwelcomed and the attention it would draw is far less so.”

* * *

Despite Nyssa’s warning and while he waits until he knew Clegane was away he visits the princess again.

“Lord Commander, how-.”

“Something troubles me.” It is more than somethings.

A fearful expression makes a home on her face. “What ails you, Lord Commander?”

Why does she ask if he was ill? She had done the same about Arryn? Why must someone be ill to see her?

Knowing not where to begin, he blurts, “At the Red Keep you said that you had no friends.”

She gapes confusedly. “Did I?” Flushing and clearly embarrassed, she looks down at her folded hands. “I suppose I must have. How foolish of me.”

“Why is it foolish?”

The princess settles herself against a chair. “What friendship can Rhaegar’s abandoned wife or a good-daughter to the Mad King command when Robert is now king?”

He steps closer to her. “Do you truly feel that way?”

Her brow furrows. “Why should I not? I have never had any friends here. Before, I lived at Dragonstone and when I was the King’s hostage I was in no position to make many. Now my husband’s killer I, we, all call king. Ser Jaime is kind, but, I know it is not friendship which binds us.” She laughs sadly before continuing, “Who else is there? Who would want my friendship?”

The good Queen Rhaella…Prince Rhaegar…Lady Dayne would have…It was not only pity which moved him to say, “There is me.” 

She jerks in her chair, horrified. “Why would I want yours?”

“What?” Surely, she could not mean- Nyssa cannot be right. She has to be wrong. “You cannot mean that."

“I do.” She sounds firm. He still does not understand.

“How can you think that?” 

“Even if I wanted it, I cannot except your friendship any more than I could that of Pycelle or Varys.”

The eunuch? The Maester? She sees him on the same level as them? How could she?

“Princess-”

“Forgive me, but, Lord Commander, I cannot.” 

Her refusal stings, but, not nearly as much as the firmness in her tone. “Cannot or will not? What wrong have I committed? Have I not serve-”

“Served? Yes, you did.” Tears well up in her dark eyes. “And now you serve someone else.”

Yes, he does, but, surely that cannot be the end of it?

“Surely you understand my reasons?”

“I do.”

“Even then?” Does she think he feels no pain? Does she even think of how many nights he dreams of the Rhaegar the boy and the prince he grew to be? Does she believe she alone feel the sting of loss of what had been and what could have been?

“Especially then,” she replies grimly.

“Yet you would blame me for my choices.”

She stiffens. “My failings are not yours, Lord Commander.”

“You believe that my bending the knee to Robert because could not serve Aerys any longer is mine.”

The princess sighs. “If I could forget that I was Aerys good-daughter I would do it gladly. I will not begrudge you that you could no longer serve that monster.”

Bitterly, he retorts, “You will begrudge me everything else.”

“Is it not so that a man can only serve one master?” 

“And the one I chose you see as a betrayal.” You too see me as a turncloak, but, you will not say it.

She turns away. “Betrayal implies a breach of loyalty.”

That hurts more than anything else. “How long have you doubted my loyalty to you? You were made a daughter of the house I served.”

She gives him an acute glance. She rises from her seat. “Just so. Your vows were never to me. They were extended to me because of who I was wed to. That bond is broken and you have taken up oaths to a new king. You are Kingsguard, Ser Barristan. We both know any loyalty you demonstrate towards me Aerys would have seen as a betrayal and Robert surely will. Pretending otherwise is a folly.” 

Despite her small frame, she seemed to grow taller. 

“Ser Barristan you have served the Targaryen kings as a member of the Kingsguard and now you are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard under the king you chose to guard. That same king will one day have a family you can do the same for. For your own sake, I urge you to be content with that.”

For the first time, he feels himself growing angry at her. “For my sake or yours?”

“Both.”

“You care so much for my sake?”

She takes the time to consider. Though she looks nothing like Nyssa, in this moment they wear the same face. “Those who I loved and lost would.” 

“But, not you?”

There was a resolute expression on her face “No matter what duty you felt towards me and those who had been mine once, as things stand now, you do not owe me your time, attention, or concern and it would be indecent of me to require you bear more burdens than necessary.” 

Lewyn’s woman sees his attention as a burden. Now his niece says the same. What would have Lewyn wanted? That he has to ask the question when he would have known the answer once makes him want to weep. “And if I wanted to bear that burden?”

She shakes her head. “Because you should not, I pray that your duties as they stand now give you the purpose you seek. I wish you well, Ser.”

And it is with those words he knows he has been dismissed.

* * *

That night he dreams of them all. Aerys. Queen Rhaella. Prince Rhaegar. Lewyn. Jonathor. Gerold. Arthur. Oswell. Prince Rhaegar. The prince’s children. 

They come to him in a blaze of light so bright it almost hurts to look at them. But, he does. He needs to see them again. Gods. It is bliss seeing them again even for a moment. 

They stare at him. He speaks first. They say nothing. They just stare. He tells them he mourns them. Nothing. His voice grows hoarse from pleading with them to say just one word to him. Still nothing. They just stare.  
No matter what he does, they just do nothing.

When he runs out of words one by one they flicker bright before fading away like they never were here at all.

* * *

The next morning, feeling as though he made a mistake in coming here he brings himself to Jaime’s door. He almost had made a mistake. When Ser Lyn greeted him with a smile mere moments ago, he nearly gave into his impulse to strike him as he had Clegane.

“Lord Commander?”

The young man sounds shocked that he would be there. He reprimands himself. Perhaps he had been far plainer in his lack of charity towards him than he should have been. Perhaps Jaime might forsake him too.

“Jaime?” 

“What is it, Lord Commander?’

“Do you ever dream of any of them?”

Jaime gawks confusedly. “Who?”

“The former king and queen? Prince Rhaegar? Our fallen brothers?”

Only for a moment Jaime shows the depth of his grief. “They speak to you as well?”

He cannot answer. The princess had been wrong. Those she loved and lost have forsaken him in the same way she had. “What do they say to you?”

A gray shadow passes across Jaime’s face. “That I failed them.”

Jaime had failed the most sacred one, yet, they speak to him?

“Why would you dream that?”

Jaime gives him half a smirk. “Because I did. Had they been alive and in front of me I would expect no less.”

Something must have showed on his face, because Jaime continues, “Before the battle at the Trident Prince Rhaegar charged me to care for his wife and his children. Clearly I failed. Not entirely, of course, but, I failed.”

Why would Prince Rhaegar ask Jaime this? True, he was in battle when Jaime had been here, but, why him? Had Prince Rhaegar not trusted him? What had the prince think he would have done? “Instead you killed the king.”

There is that bitter smile again. “I thought I was protecting them by doing that.” Jaime barks out a hollow laugh. “Aye, I killed the king. I did not know I did not have the time to save the princess and the children from the King and those men.” He looks away from Jaime, disgusted. Jaime cannot even say it, ‘his father’s men’. But, those he served speak to Jaime.

“And now?”

Jaime huffs. “It’s only the princess now and well, she cannot go anywhere.”

He pounces. “You mean since she attempted to take her life?”

That Jaime’s guilty expression is more suited to a child who disobeyed their mother does little to soothe him. “Ah. Er.” Jaime stammers before taking a breath to gather himself. “You know?”

Annoyed, he snaps, “Clearly. Why did you not tell me?”

“It has been sometime since it’s been a concern.” 

“Did you think that would reassure me?”

“You were not supposed to know.”

“Did you think I did not deserve to know?”

Jaime stares. “What purpose would it have served?”

“Who have you told?” Who had been deemed worthy?

Jaime looks away. “I had to tell Arryn. If not me, Clegane certainly would.”

His throat jumps. Arryn knows. Clegane knows. Who else that is not him?

“Do you know why Arryn had not seen fit to tell me?”

“I cannot say.” His face darkens but Jaime does not elaborate. Jaime does not need to. Arryn would never confide in a man whose loyalties are still too new to be trusted. 

“The king?”

Jaime shrugs. “I doubt Arryn would bother him about this.” And the king would not care to know. Perhaps the king might welcome it. 

Nyssa’s words fly about his head. In this moment, he cannot deny them. And, Gods, what does that make him? What could he even do about it? He had made his oaths to Robert. He made his oaths before too. 

“Does your father know?”

“No.” Of that, Jaime is emphatic. That is a cold relief at least. He could not know what he would have done if the answer had been ‘yes’.

“You swear there have been no more attempts?”

“Yes.”

“You will tell me if there are any others. That is an order.”

Jaime stiffens. “Yes, Lord Commander, but, I swear, there will not be.”

“You sound so certain.”

“I am. With the Stark bastard and Clegane have been under the same roof she would not.”

Unable to look at Jaime any longer he leaves.

There is nothing to be said.

* * *

Alone in his office he thinks and thinks. 

He has always served.

Most he served are dead. The one he used to serve no longer desires his service. The ones he does now do not trust him.

He had served. He would like to serve.

Why is that not enough?

Why is he not enough?

Why is he not worthy enough?

What more does he have to do to be worthy enough?

How much more does he have to give to be worthy enough?

Only silence answers him.


End file.
